


Our Hearts We Have Sold (for Diamonds and Gold)

by kyojinouji



Series: little dark age [2]
Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fullmetal Alchemist 2003/Brotherhood Fusion, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Grief/Mourning, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Polyamory, Supernatural Illnesses, The Magicians AU, eating disorder mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27037516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyojinouji/pseuds/kyojinouji
Summary: How do you bring the dead back to life? What signifies the price of a human soul?A group of rogue magicians might know as they walk solemnly in tragedy's footsteps. There would be a sunrise again– even if they had to make one themselves.✧ Based on The Magicians TV series and bits of Fullmetal Alchemist. ✧✧✧ IMPORTANT: This fic directly follows "I Wish I Was the Moon". ✧✧
Relationships: Choi Jongho/Jeong Yunho/Song Mingi, Choi San/Jung Wooyoung/Kang Yeosang, Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: little dark age [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992319
Comments: 22
Kudos: 41





	1. quinta essentia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW // Past Death, Grieving

> _ “Our hearts we have sold _
> 
> _ For diamonds and gold. _
> 
> _ But hey, baby, take a look. _
> 
> _ We have it all. _
> 
> _ And haven't you heard? _
> 
> _ Hearts turn to dirt; _
> 
> _ Along with the rest of your body. _
> 
> _ It's all claimed by the earth.” _
> 
> **_We Have it All_ ** _ \- Pim Stones _

* * *

Dew upon the midnight lawn used to be one of his favorite things. Its slick embrace chilled his bare feet— grounding him. He was able to see the stars that way. Every little droplet glittering like their reflective ancestors in the night sky so far above. And when he settles the bundle of purple hyacinths, blue forget-me-nots, and baby’s breath, he breathes in their purpose.

“What a sad bouquet,” the florist had said as she wrapped the delicate blooms in tissue. “Passings of loved ones are always the most difficult.”

“They are,” he whispered, watching the way the white lace ribbon danced between the woman’s nimble fingers. “Life is fragile.”

And now, with the moonlight raining down upon him, he knows just how gentle he has to be to bring him back. 

“Plant them,” the childish voice rang. “You’ll get donuts that way.”

The boy only stared back. His expression was unnaturally vacant. And that something Wooyoung had been desperate to change over the last few weeks of school. Instead of responding, he shook the dark hair out of his eyes and held out an open palm. With a wild grin, the three Cheerios tumbled out of his own clenched fist.

Kang Yeosang humbled Jung Wooyoung more than he helped him in the beginning. Even as an elementary schooler, he was impossibly attentive to every little action that the younger performed. When Wooyoung used his entire arm to color with his dried-out markers, Yeosang would roll his eyes and continue his tiny strokes. When Wooyoung fell off the monkey bars while trying to beat Changbin’s record, Yeosang sat beside him and drew little characters in the dirt with the wooden mulch chips. When Wooyoung found chaos, Yeosang brought him back to Earth. If only the younger knew that Yeosang would do that until the end. Until only one of them was left far, far from home. Far, far from Earth.

Back then, they played in the open field behind Yeosang’s house like it was the last paradise they would ever see. They ate dry cereal right out of the box, ignoring Mrs. Kang’s constant warnings that too much sugar would rot their teeth. The first time Wooyoung got a cavity, he blamed the older boy for not keeping his cravings under lock and key. It earned him a smack to the back of the head. 

Wooyoung was popular for the majority of their adolescence, but perhaps not for the best reasons. It started when girls asked him out for ice cream sodas and he said yes every time. They were twelve years old and he didn’t understand what he was agreeing to. Especially not when they tried to call them his girlfriends. However, he never wanted to say no. He couldn’t hurt someone for simply feeling things.

But when Yeosang found a slip of paper tucked under his shoes at the end of one school day, Wooyoung didn’t push to find out who put it there. He frowned, of course, when the hot acid feeling began to drip down his throat. When the cotton in his stomach expanded and deflated as though a marshmallow in a microwave, he knew it was time to go. So, he waited at the gates while Yeosang met with whoever it was.

That was the first puzzle piece clicking into place. It was the red hot iron pressed against his heart every time he thought of Yeosang holding hands with someone that wasn’t him. The concept of someone kissing his cheek as they parted for class. Wooyoung could do those things with girls, so why did it hurt so badly to think of the older doing the same?

He dug his grave until he saw that familiar figure descend the stone stairs. There was no girl by his side. Instead, he walked up to Wooyoung and shrugged when the other asked what that was about.

“Confession,” Yeosang mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Can we get food on the way home? I’m in the mood for fries.”

“You want the chicken,” Wooyoung laughed. When he saw the way the older boy’s expression faltered, however, something made him want to take it back. Why did he look so disappointed?

“I’m more than just my tastes, you know,” he said softly, shouldering past Wooyoung and onto the sidewalk. From that point forth, Wooyoung didn’t make jokes about little things like that. He didn’t know what that girl had said, but something made his stomach toil violently. Of course, Wooyoung knew that his best friend was more than just the food he enjoyed. 

Wooyoung’s first kiss was horrible. It was strawberry flavored and left his mouth sticky with the glitter-glue gloss his ‘girlfriend’ insisted on wearing. He gagged when her tongue brushed the seam of his lips. And then, promptly threw her off of his lap when she settled a palm over his crotch and squeezed. 

When he went home, it wasn’t to his own house. It was to Yeosang’s doorstep where he sat like a lost child until the proverbial boy walked out onto the porch. They didn’t speak. Instead, Yeosang just held out an empty hand and let the other wind their fingers together. 

“Why is your mouth sparkly?”

Wooyoung laughed and cracked a broken grin. With the yellow glow of the Kang’s porchlight dancing on his eyelashes, it was easy to see just how ethereal the boy in front of him was. Why, even at fourteen, people had approached them on the street to scout him. Yeosang was everything that Wooyoung wanted to be. And he was beginning to realize, that red hot feeling was jealousy. 

At age fifteen, everything went to shit. He had blocked out most of the memories, but there were a few that stuck out so clearly. Things he would never be able to forget as long as he lived. 

He did not expect to drift away from Yeosang. However, the more extracurriculars the younger joined, the more Yeosang just went home. He stopped waiting for Wooyoung after classes. He stopped holding his hand in public, out of fear that someone from Wooyoung’s clubs might see. 

“Let them see,” the younger whined one afternoon as Yeosang tried desperately to pull away. “What are you so scared of? It’s not like we’re dating. I would never date you.” 

It was then that the metaphorical cliff had been walked off of. He saw it in the older’s expression before Yeosang even said anything. It was the death of a falling star. The crash came when the freshly dyed brunette ripped his wrist out of the other’s grip as though he had been scalded. 

“You’re too good for me anyways,” Yeosang snapped, picking up his messenger bag from where it had haphazardly landed beside the men’s bathroom. He didn’t say anything else. Instead, he spun on his heel and left before Wooyoung could cry out. Yeosang did not answer any of his calls or texts after that.

The next time Wooyoung saw him, his hair was a fluorescent pink. Yeosang, who never wanted to stand out. Yeosang, who frowned every time they saw an idol on TV change their color like the day of the week. Yeosang, whose lips were pressed against some girl’s as though his life depended on it. Her hair was the same hue. And for once, Wooyoung knew what it felt like to truly be jealous.

Eight weeks passed until Wooyoung tried again. For the first time since the fight, Yeosang was alone in the cafeteria. The girl, someone Wooyoung had learned was named Gahyeon, was no longer stuck to his side like the bubblegum that her hair so vividly matched. Yeosang, however, was focusing on the open book in front of him and acting as though she was nowhere in the same universe. And so, Wooyoung sent the text. 

_ “I’m sorry.” _

Yeosang did not respond. 

It was just outside his chemistry room that the rumor hit him for the first time. Gahyeon’s locker was evidently just beside the class door. As Wooyoung shouldered into the hallway, the girl was having an intense conversation with three members from the dance team. And by all means, it didn’t seem to be going well.

“He didn’t even try to kiss you? You always had to start it?” one of the students gasped. “Did you guys even have sex?”

“No,” Gahyeon said softly, cradling a stack of spiral bound notebooks. “Neither of us really wanted to. It just didn’t feel right.”

Another girl made a noise in the back of her throat, cocking her hip roughly to the side and planting her palm on the delicate curve. “You didn’t want to? Have you looked at him? Yeosang is one of the only guys around here that’s worth anything.”

“Or Wooyoung,” the last said, twirling a long strand of blue around her finger. The comment catches him off guard. But when he glances back to the girl, she is staring right at him. And maybe, for the first time that feeling of jealousy pitters away just a bit.

That’s where it all had started. The downward spiral that never seemed to end. The trips to the unisex bathrooms in the hidden wing of the school just to meet up with whoever fed him compliments for five minutes— ten on a good day. The sneaking around and sidelong glances from anyone who could make him forget, just for a second, how painful it was to be lonely. 

And for a while, Yeosang didn’t acknowledge it. Until one day, he did.

The fight broke out just as the lunch period was ending. At first, it was exciting. Nothing interesting ever happened at the school. A fight? Instantly life changing. But the last thing Wooyoung expected to see was the flash of faded pink hair through the shoulders of those blocking the view. And then, as he got closer, the flower petal birthmark just beneath his best friend’s eye.

Or rather, where it would be. Instead, a larger red imprint had spread across the delicate flesh and was already darkening. By three, it would be a bruise in the shape of someone’s fist. And then, he heard it.

“Take it back,” Yeosang growled, slamming the other student into the linoleum. “What you said about Wooyoung.”

“That he’s a fucking slut?” the other boy asked, screeching when Yeosang dug his nails into the soft part of his neck; just beneath his jawline. 

“Shut up,” the pink haired boy barked, emphasizing his demand with another pointed slap. It was only when the monitors pulled the two boys apart that Wooyoung caught his friend’s eye over the crowd. His heart heavy and hot like a still burning coal, he followed them to the principal’s office and waited until Yeosang’s parents came to pick him up.

When the Kangs saw him there, knees pulled to his chest pitifully, they sat beside him with soft smiles. The kind his own parents hardly had time for. And when Yeosang wandered out of the meeting, bruise already forming, he held out a single fist. Wooyoung could not stop himself from colliding his against the older’s with a quiet laugh.

“Can we get ice cream?” Yeosang asked, already moving toward the door. He stopped and faced his family with a shy smile. “I don’t regret it, by the way. He was talking shit about Woo.”

“Language, Yeosang,” his father warned. His words held no actual bite. “I wouldn’t expect you to take it back, bud. That isn’t how we raised you.”

“You’re our brave little warrior,” Mrs. Kang tacked on warmly. Her arms find their way around both Yeosang and Wooyoung’s shoulders easily. “And of course we can go get ice cream. All of us.” And it was that feeling again. Warm and toxic like bubbling waste beneath his skin. 

_ Jealousy _ . 

That could have been the first hint. But at fifteen, not all emotions were well-treaded territories. Instead of a barren path leading from his heart to his brain, it was a forest of vines and red laser-lights. There were so many mistakes that could be made. So many places he could trip and send himself sprawling. And he did.

In the flickering crimson light of his childhood home, he felt the air knocked out of his lungs. As his father stood in the window with the audacity of a forbidden saint and uttered those stupid fucking words. As his magic touched his wild heart and sought to please him. To damn him. To condemn him to his wrath and sin like an unspoken pact.

He found his mistakes there. Where the snow melted in a large crop circle around the crumbling base, where that stupid baby blue paint had begun to peel from the foundation. Where his little brother saw the nest of baby bunnies earlier that spring. Where they laid all of his childhood pets to rest. His mistake was not knowing that he had sentenced his entire family to the same fate.

And when the Kangs pulled them tightly into their circle and cradled him as he sobbed– as the firefighters did what they could to smother the flames. Yeosang talked him through those stupid breathing exercises with the patience of a saint. They sat in the back of the ambulance and the pink haired boy did not dare to move an inch as Wooyoung wrapped around him like a vice. 

Wooyoung was a murderer, but no one had to know. 

In a whirlwind, everything had been pulled out from under him. 

He was supposed to be having fun. He was supposed to spend his time getting wasted and watching Yeosang dance between people that would probably give him everything he ever wanted and more– just for a night. He was supposed to be the best friend that he could be and smile when the boy that radiated warmth asked him to stay at Changbin’s overnight; so he could have the apartment to himself. He was supposed to be a lot of things. 

He wasn’t supposed to be in love.

And the night he put a word to that emotion was the same one that was filled with Yeosang’s high-pitched keening as he thrusted shallowly into him. 

“Make me forget,” Yeosang had said, pressing a kiss to his temple. “For tonight, make me forget him.”  _ Him _ . Yeosang’s boyfriend of a few weeks– God knows how long exactly. He stopped keeping track around the two month mark. 

Wooyoung could do physical. He could do the heavy, kinky, hard shit with no strings– or far too many– attached. He could make someone forget their own name and scream his as though that was their only tether to this godforsaken earth. So, why did it hurt so badly to watch Yeosang come apart beneath him? And why did he feel like he was losing a piece of himself every time they did this wicked dance?

“You’re in love with him,” Changbin murmured in the middle of their stats lecture. He had the cap of his pen between his teeth. “Now, can you please listen to the fucking professor so you don’t bust my ass when we study?” 

“I’m not,” Wooyoung had gasped. He chose to ignore the dramatic eye roll that his friend offered him. “I can’t be–”

“Jung Wooyoung! Is there something I can help you with?” the professor called, cocking an eyebrow. When Wooyoung sputtered in a panic, the elderly man continued the lesson as though nothing had happened. 

He wasn’t in love with Yeosang. Sure, he loved him. But he didn’t imagine going on flowery dates with the man.

Yeosang would look ethereal surrounded by sunflowers and sprawled out on a red and off-white checkered picnic blanket. They didn’t own one, but Wooyoung could already feel the warmth of summer on his skin. He could practically see the way golden rays would dance along his copper strands. How those tiny flecks of green and amber would stand out when the light hit them just right. And it wasn’t hard to envision strawberry shortcake crumbs on the older’s lips. Or the whipped cream that would certainly get stuck in the corners of his mouth. 

He didn’t imagine it often. Especially not in the way to get everything down to the celestial detail.

When it came time to apply to grad school, they had not stopped that wicked game they were playing. It was the one that lit Wooyoung’s skin up like the night sky and pressed stardust against the delicate space between Yeosang’s shoulder blades. It was the one that tore at his insides with every stray glance. When Wooyoung laid there, his spine pressing into the old mattress they shoved through the apartment door, and waxed poetics of his best friend’s eyelashes, there was no one else to see him. Not even Yeosang knew how much he loved that dainty angel’s kiss just beside his eye. 

That had been the emotion all along. It had a name that Wooyoung wanted to taste like cotton candy and peach, but instead it was sulfuric and bitter. The soda bubbles and molten rock left to settle in the pit of his stomach.

Sometimes, it was jealousy.

But, more often than he was willing to admit, it was love.

That did not explain how he found himself pinned against the door of the ritzy hotel bar— hands far above his head and a tongue down his throat. The black haired boy had barely even said six words to Wooyoung before they found themselves in that position; twisted together like the old elm and willow at the edge of the Kang’s property. Wooyoung had needed a break, just an escape from reality for a few hours, and Yeosang was too busy studying for the entrance exam. He could practically picture the older boy sprawled out on his bed, blonde hair pinned back by a fluffy pink headband, fretting over a couple hundred years of English literature. 

But Wooyoung? He gave up studying weeks earlier. Grad school was never where he saw himself. Nonetheless, he was determined to please his best friend. To stay by his side just a little longer.

So, why did he find himself so far away? It was his own fault, of course, but the least he had expected was a call from the other. And when a man with the proportions of moonlight personified graced his presence, who was he to say no? 

“Do you have a room here?” Wooyoung managed to huff out as the brunette’s lips danced down his jaw. He sucked mark after mark into the exposed flesh, courtesy of the low-collared top he weaseled out of Yeosang’s closet. Yeo hardly wore it anymore. What would it matter if Wooyoung got a little more use out of it?

“I do,” the man breathed. His voice hadn’t been that sultry when they spoke at the bar. The accent was beautiful— deep and rich. “Are you suggesting we—“

“I’m suggesting,” Wooyoung murmured, dragging his knee up just enough to apply a little pressure to the other’s crotch, “that you show me the way.”

He knew that he was drunk. He knew that he wasn’t in the headspace to make decisions like this. And yet, he let it happen. So, why did it surprise him when he woke up the next morning with a splitting migraine, an empty hotel bed, and the vague memory of a wedding march?

Nearly a year later, that same one-night stand sits beside him. His knees pulled to his chest as he searches Wooyoung’s gaze for something— anything— that shows a bit of hesitation. The brunette knows there is nothing but fire in his own stare. And so, San makes a quiet noise.

“You really want to play God again?”

“To be fair,” Wooyoung says slowly, “this would actually be the first time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✧ Find me on Twitter: [@KyojinOuji](https://twitter.com/kyojinouji)
> 
> I always follow back and love new friends.
> 
> \- Cheers! ✧


	2. lady alchymia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ✧ TW // Past Death, Grieving ✧
> 
> ✧ Disclaimer: This chapter references a few aspects of Pagan rituals. I am Pagan, however, there is always a chance something may offend someone. Always feel free to reach out to me if that is the case! ✧
> 
> ✧ There is a perspective change halfway through this chapter following the second set of lyrics. ✧

> _ “I called in sick from your funeral. _
> 
> _ The sight of your body made me feel uncomfortable. _
> 
> _ I couldn't recognize your shell. _
> 
> _ I called in sick from your funeral. _
> 
> _ The sight of your family made me feel responsible.” _
> 
> **_Your Deep Rest_ ** _ \- The Hotelier _
> 
> * * *

Autumn speaks in riddles as she ruffles the rust-colored leaves of Utopia’s reigning oak. Once, when they were young enough to still see the mystery of fall, Yeosang told him that for as long as they were alive, they would see the foliage change together. If it took a thousand dollars and three flights, they would be with each other to watch the fiery tones burn before Heaven’s gates. They had been seventeen. 

And now, only three weeks into October, Wooyoung feels him there. In the breeze. Among the branches. Yeosang has to be there.

And yet…

“No,” Hongjoong’s voice is hardly audible. “I’m sorry, Wooyoung, but–”

“This isn’t your choice,” San bites back. There is fury in his gaze. Embers and brimstone, threatening the second eldest to veto their request again. “If you don’t want to help us, so be it. But Wooyoung deserves–”

“To die?” Hongjoong finishes. His hair is dark now, a muddy brown with tints of green peeking through. It was a haphazard dye-job that he performed right after Yeosang’s funeral. The one thing he felt as though he could still control. “Jongho can tell you all about that.”

The boy in question makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. It’s a cross between a choked-off gasp and a gulp. When Wooyoung meets the younger’s eyes, he doesn’t smile. Instead, he pointedly glances back toward the ground like a kicked puppy. 

Maybe, that was exactly it. That was the exact thing they treated him like now. As though he was lost, confused, and completely alone. While two of those statements were true, the fingers laced with his pulled him back down to reality. 

“I’m willing–”

San’s voice shatters beneath Seonghwa’s as the blonde leans forward on their picnic blanket. This was supposed to be fun. A bonding experience to get Wooyoung out of the cottage. A breath of fresh air– literally.

“You’re willing to do what, Sannie? Sacrifice yourself?” Seonghwa sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “We all miss Yeo–”

“Then, act like it,” San barks. “We have magic. We know there is a way. Yeosang brought Jongho back, so obviously, there’s a chance.”

Hongjoong crosses his arms over his chest with a bitter laugh. “Are you forgetting that was Yeosang’s discipline? Bringing shit back to life isn’t possible.” And he’s right. But that did not mean that Wooyoung was willing to let the possibility seep through his fingers.

“Hyung,” he whispers finally. “You loved him too. But don’t pretend that this affects you the same way.” When the brunette glances at the other, Hongjoong’s mouth is pursed into a small pout. “You could walk into his funeral without the weight of his family’s sorrow bearing down on your shoulders. You could speak to his parents as their son’s ex-lover. I spoke to them like ghosts from my past. Because after that, there is no way I’ll ever be able to look them in the eye again.”

“Wooyoung–” Yunho starts, eyes widening when Mingi presses a finger to his lips carefully. 

“We all lost a friend. But that? That was my family and they don’t even get to know the truth about how their son died. Because I had to stand on their doorstep and tell them that there had been a terrible car accident and Yeo didn’t make it out alive.” He pauses, tears rolling down his cheeks like iridescent gravemarkers. “So, for fuck’s sake, if I want to be reckless then let me.”

There is silence in the courtyard as the world moves around them. His words settle like a eulogy that went unspoken for far too long. But he had grown so tired of the stares and soft apologies. The therapy sessions never helped. The bonfires to burn those weighted memories never held. For when the morning came, the ashes were still there. And they clung to his skin like a curse. 

Maybe, that is why Hongjoong’s next words catch him off guard.

“Will you at least tell Eden this time?”

“Will I–”

“If you tell Eden, I’ll agree to help you. But Seonghwa is done making deals with devils.”

_ Seonghwa _ . The only surviving member of the cacodemon trio that actually utilized his creature’s ability. Every cacodemon came with a warning: the use of their power was sealed by a contract. 

Seonghwa’s, however, did not succeed with its mission. It missed its mark, just slightly, and left the Beast alive. Damaged, but still functioning. As such, it let the Healer off easily. Its reward for what it did manage to achieve? 

Ten years of his lifespan– however long that might be.

“He stays out of the ritual.”

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa starts, flailing slightly when the brunette’s palm appears directly in front of his nose. 

“No,” Hongjoong growls. “You’re done selling yourself. Ten years, Seonghwa? That's time that we would have had together. Living in some stupid seaside cottage and tending to our goats or whatever the hell people do when they’re trying to lay low.” He pushes a finger against the older’s chest. “No more.”

Seonghwa doesn’t speak. Instead, he presses his forehead against Hongjoong’s shoulder with a grunt. Wooyoung barely notices it, but the man nods carefully. 

The leaves rustle far above, dancing to their own beat, but for a moment the world is soft. 

The headmaster’s office has never been particularly detailed. Mint green walls hold hostage a few well-worn maps, tucked into frames, for visitors to see. Three red velvet couches sit in a bizarre U-shape and cradle a cherry-wood coffee table in the center like a precious moment. On its polished surface rests the same golden hourglass from that fateful exam. For a second, it’s as though Wooyoung can see the sand rushing upward instead of down. And upon closer inspection, that is exactly the case. 

From his desk at the head of the room, Eden prattles on about some intense hotspot of magic that has recently appeared in the form of a geyser in Yellowstone. The Master of Knowledge groans as the person he speaks to over the phone spits out another portion of evidently exhausting information. Even from this distance, Wooyoung feels like the man’s urge to strangle something is stronger than he has ever seen it. Carefully, he thumbs at the base of the hourglass, inspecting the engraving, and makes to flip it over.

“Jung Wooyoung, I’d advise you not to touch that.”

The brunette in question leaps nearly a mile into the air. Beside him, San lets out a squeaky cackle. Since losing his sight, Eden had adjusted quite well to using all of his other senses. While he could not see things in detail, his perception had adjusted to colorful blobs of magic. He could still identify students based on these auras alone.

When the group came back from the Tír na nÓg, they were met with a whirlwind of changes. Maddox tried to ease them back into the world in the best way that he could, but that did not stop the group from jumping at the slightest sounds. The first time Wooyoung saw a moth dancing around one of the campus light posts, he crumpled onto the brick pathway until San carried him home.

Life had gone on without them. 

“Jongmin, I’ll talk to you about this later. Just don’t let any of those vultures touch it,” he pauses. “I’ll send Maddox out with a few of the kids tomorrow. Take care for now.” When the phone settles back into its cradle, the man makes a strangled sound.

“Are you alright, sir?” Wooyoung asks, cocking his head. 

Eden glances up and narrows his eyes. The Healers did the best they could to regenerate them, but the color isn’t even between the two. One is a honey-colored amber while the other matches the mossy tones of the forest floor. 

“Just another day, I suppose. Thank you for asking, Wooyoung.” He leans back in his chair before stretching like a large cat. “Might I ask why you two are here today? You only said that it was urgent. We don’t have a therapy session that I forgot about, do we?” 

“No, sir,” Wooyoung says gently. They hadn’t had a session in nearly three weeks. And if he could help it, he would make it much longer. “We’re here with a request.”

The statement perks the older magician’s attention. With a raised brow, he adjusts so that he sits on the edge of his seat and rests his elbow on the desk before him. Despite his youthful appearance, the gesture exudes his age and stature. Eden is far too attentive and powerful to simply listen with a passive ear. 

“You’re here about Yeosang,” the man suggests. Immediately, Wooyoung’s breath catches in his throat– along with his voice. San senses the tension that passes through the younger boy. 

“We are,” the Traveller confirms swiftly. “Human transmutation.”

“You want to perform the ritual that Yeosang failed before?”

“Did he truly fail if he brought Jongho back?” Wooyoung murmurs. The snark that leaks into his tone spreads crimson along his features with a fine-toothed comb. With a gasp, he slaps his hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

Eden, however, just laughs off the comment with a quick wave of his hand. “You are correct, Jung, but I feel as though you are forgetting a few key portions of that story. Kang Yeosang was a talented Necromancer and did not succeed at actually transmuting a full body,” Eden says slowly. 

“He only reconnected Jongho’s soul to his corpse,” San finishes with a sigh. “We never said it would be easy, sir. However, we also don’t believe it to be impossible.”

Impossible. The word had lost its meaning long ago. Probably around the same time that magic was formally introduced into their lives. And even more so, when Wooyoung realized being a dance instructor wasn’t exactly in the cards from here on out.

“Do you know the Law of Equivalent Exchange?” the blonde asks from his desk. When both boys nod, his expression grows serious. “You know I can’t see you when you do that.” 

Flushing, Wooyoung adds a soft, “We do.” The older man only chuckles before continuing on. 

“There will never be a time in life when things come for free. If you’re going to transmute something, whether it be human or gold, you need to have a bargaining piece in mind. What do you have that would make up the value of a human soul, as well as, a body?” 

“The Beast was made from Yeosang’s sins,” Wooyoung says. “A body can easily be crafted with the right materials and elements. We have the approval of our friends meaning the magic and manpower is at our disposal. If everyone was to give up a single sin, we may be able to do it.”

“And if you create the Beast again?” Eden asks slowly. His tone is deep, pulled from the ocean itself, and coated with its salt. “Are you able to kill Yeosang twice?”

“The Beast will never be Yeosang,” San’s voice drops into a near growl. “But if the Beast gives me the chance to kill him this time, then I won’t hesitate.”

Eden’s lips paint with a Cheshire grin as he approves the ritual.

✧ ✧ ✧

* * *

_ ✧ ✧ ✧ _

> _ “We're all victims of the way it hurts when the love is gone. _
> 
> _ Forever is not for everyone. _
> 
> _ We can't undo what's been said and done. _
> 
> _ 'Cause I am a witness to love's death. _
> 
> _ There's no blood, there's no body, there's nothing left. _
> 
> _ Oh, my darling, don't you ever forget,  _
> 
> _ I wasn't prepared for the end.” _
> 
> **_Lovers Death -_ ** _ Ursine Vulpine, Annaca _
> 
> * * *

It’s written in red pen. For a moment, the sight of Jongho’s old grimoire makes San’s mind flash back to that night. The one where every psychic link in a twelve-mile radius screamed at him until he made himself tear off toward that old lecture hall. The one where he watched Jongho crumble like a soft-baked cookie and tint the floorboards scarlet. 

_ “35 [L] 🜄 _

_ 20 [kg] carbon _

_ 4 [L] ammonia _

_ 1.5 [kg] 🝁 _

_ 800 [g] phosphorous _

_ 250 [g] 🜔 _

_ 100 [g] saltpeter _

_ 80 [g] 🜍 _

_ 7.5 [g] fluorine _

_ 5 [g] 🜜 _

_ 3 [g] silicon _

_ 15 other trace elements” _

Mingi analyzes the notebook from someplace over San’s shoulder. His eyes narrow as he watches the older flip the page quickly. 

“Does my boyfriend speak Wingdings?” the blonde asks honestly. When Yunho overhears the conversation, he doubles over and nearly tips the tub of water they have been slowly filtering. “Yun, I’m serious! Did you know that Jongho was fluent in more languages than Korean and English?” 

“He speaks Latin too,” Jongho answers for himself. His face is smudged with grey ash as he wipes the back of his hand along his cheek. “They’re alchemical symbols, Gi.” 

The blonde’s mouth pops into a perfect circle. It’s enough to make San’s mind drift out of the hole it had been steadily digging, and just as such, easier for Wooyoung to wrap his arms around the man’s waist. He hums into the contact, smiling softly, and chooses to ignore the catcalls that echo through the room. Imagine their shock and surprise if they saw the two get up to anything even slightly more intimate.

“You’re a Knowledge student,” Yunho chuckles, spinning by just long enough to drop a kiss on top of Jongho’s head. The youngest offers him a gummy smile before sticking his tongue out at Mingi. “I’d be more concerned if you didn’t know them.”

“Maybe I’ll start writing solely in Wingdings,” Jongho replies. “It could be a fun experience.”

“I love you,” Mingi groans, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. “But if you so much as even hint that you’re going to start  _ speaking _ it, I’m sending you back to the other realm.”

Hongjoong snorts from his spot at the front podium. Beside him, Eden, Seonghwa, and Maddox work to grind elements with the small mortar and pestle sets from the cabinet. It was bizarre to be working alongside everyone to commit such an atrocious taboo. Yet, it felt as though they were doing nothing more than preparing a family-style Thanksgiving dinner.

“You alright?” Wooyoung whispers. It had always been like this— the magician’s ability to pick up on even the slightest change in San’s mood. One didn’t have to be a mind reader to feel the way his shoulders slumped all too easily. The Traveller smiles silently and presses a kiss to his lover’s forehead. 

No one was alright. The term had lost its meaning long ago. Probably around the same time that gritty soil began to spill onto the damn mahogany casket. Maybe even before that.

Wooyoung nods before carefully unwrapping himself from San. At some point, speaking would be easy. It would be full of warmth and stillness when the world needed a chance to lull, but the ache would not be so prevalent. Once they were able to fill that gap of wisteria and broken promises.

“So, the golem is our first step?” Mingi asks, drawing the attention to himself. The Naturalist had grown quiet since Yeosang’s passing. His normally brilliant smile had been replaced with a distant look and unnatural aura. Truly, though, it wasn’t a surprise. The younger had relied on Yeosang as a figure to ground him when the waves of life threatened to pull him under. Even his bond with both of his boyfriends could not bring him back in quite the same way.

“The spirit doll,” Eden murmurs, sliding a pile of wool roving in the magician’s direction. “While I trust that the clay armor would be durable enough, I would feel more comfortable if we provided something fibrous for his soul to cling to.”

It was simply a pile of white fluff. With a frown, Mingi lifts a section into the air. His eyebrow raises with it. Maddox, watching the confusion unfold on the boy’s face, chuckles before pushing a salmon-tinted case toward him.

“Felting needles,” he says. “They’re thin and barbed. You know how we had you bring a few of Yeosang’s belongings?” The question is directed at Wooyoung. The brunette nods, staring at the professor apprehensively. He hadn’t been partial to the idea of anything of Yeosang’s leaving his grasp.

“Here,” San says as he places a wooden jewelry box in front of Mingi. 

“What you will need to do is felt around those materials.” Maddox rounds the table to kneel beside the group. From the box, he pulls out a dainty gold necklace but doesn’t ask for details. Instead, he places it into the center of a chunk of wool before wrapping it tightly. Then, he removes one of the felting needles from its case and pops it into a rubberized handle. With a quick pecking motion, he begins to stab the bundle repetitively until he ends up with a tight ball.

“You’ll just repeat it until you have something the size of your fist.”

“That’s about the size of a human heart,” Yunho adds with furrowed brows. At some point, Jongho smudged something black over the boy’s cheeks and nose to mimic cat whiskers. “Is that the goal?”

“Yeosang deserves to have a heart again, doesn’t he?” Eden smiles softly, dipping his finger into a bit of black salt to dot Hongjoong’s nose with. The younger man squeaks and narrows his eyes at the headmaster with a pout. It was rare that the two were in the same vicinity, but Eden had spent years mentoring the boy. Even before Seonghwa had arrived. 

And so, with fervour, they work until the golden rays of the setting hour embrace the room with a butterfly’s touch. Gentle and comforting– like honey tea and milk duds. It’s when the wool heart is packed tightly that the group knows the time has come. So, with silent grace, Wooyoung stands carefully. Every step wobbles like a fawn on fresh legs, but they carry him to the front of the lecture hall with certainty. 

In the corner, a new mirror has found its home. San wonders, for just a breath, when they replaced it. And in another, he feels panic run its icy fingertips down his spine. He doesn’t call out for his lover to step away from that glittering reflection, however. And for that, he has to feel at least a little proud. 

At some point, San stopped covering the bathroom mirror. And the one on the vanity. He no longer ducked his head as he passed the tinted windows of cars. There was nothing there that would steal Wooyoung away again. Nothing that would step through and ruin everything they had built. While Wooyoung worked with Eden to live without Yeosang’s presence, San had to learn something else entirely. 

Maddox taught him how to breathe alongside the memory. 

So, when Wooyoung grabs the mirror and places it at the tip of the transmutation circle, San reminds himself to focus on just that. Breathing. 

“Are the materials ready?” Maddox asks, doing a lap around the room. He carries another mirror to complete the small triangle. “While I check things, take a moment to ground yourselves. You’ll be leading the ritual, we’re only here to make sure what happened last time…” he drifts off. His gaze falls onto Jongho who wears an expression of steeled determination. “So it doesn’t happen again.”

“Seonghwa, can you prepare the markings? I would offer, but it seems my artistic ability has become null,” Eden jokes. With a chuckle, the Healer grabs the powdered black salt and dried rosemary. Carefully, he pours a small amount of Utopia’s rosewater into the finely ground base. Its gentle pink tint catches the amber light like a moonbeam, sending fractals of iridescent quartz around the room. 

First, he comes to his own lover. Hongjoong stares at him as though the universe spun to a waltz within Seonghwa’s eyes. And maybe it does. With a patient smile, they share an unspoken command.  _ Strip _ . 

It’s just so the markings can be traced along the group’s torso and spine, but there is something about the way Hongjoong’s blouse flutters open that creates an air of intimacy. As though they should not be seeing the moment that sparks silently between the couple before them. But then again, it is impossible to look away. 

Seonghwa’s fingers are nimble as they dip into the charcoal-colored paste. As it drips from them, freckling the floor like rain, he closes his eyes and draws in a sharp breath. Then suddenly, he’s moving. What begins as a rounded hourglass, the bottom bulb featuring a single dot, soon becomes an intricate transmutation circle. At a quick glance, it looks like a horned beast with wings– a cacodemon. 

But in this world, it is called something entirely different.  _ The Grand Arcanum.  _ Some said that if you were to map it out just over a city, you could commit a taboo even larger than reviving the dead. Even greater than playing God.

Ten-thousand souls for a single crimson-colored gem. The legend of alchemists and the one thing that could change the world in a heartbeat. The treasure key to all of magic.  _ The philosopher’s stone.  _

And for some, that was the goal. To kill as many as it took for just a glance at the jewel. With the philosopher’s stone, a magician or mortal would be unstoppable. Their power would be unhinged. But for the nine in this particular room, that wasn’t even a thought that crossed their minds. 

Instead, San watches the way Seonghwa works quickly and moves to the next person. Round the circle he goes, dedicated to crafting the symbol on everyone involved. And when he finally approaches San, he smiles softly. 

“This may be cold,” the blonde murmurs, dipping his fingers back into the makeshift paint. It smells clean. Sure, the herb overpowers the rosewater a bit too much, but it isn’t unappealing. San knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this scent will haunt him in the nights to come. Whether things went well or crashed and burned around them, the memory would be there. 

_ Breathe. _

The mixture is cold as Seonghwa spreads it between his shoulder blades. But as soon as it hits the dips of his spine, he feels the chill settle differently. It is the feeling of anticipation. The drawn-out sigh that begs to be heard by the masses. For a second, he debates dropping his wards and allowing the thoughts of everyone else to invade his senses. At least then, the silence wouldn’t be so suffocating. 

Before he can, however, Seonghwa’s palms settle over his shoulders and instruct him to turn around so that he can add the grounding sigil to the younger’s chest. Frowning, San does. It isn’t that he dislikes being so close to others. In reality, he used to crave skinship from quite literally anyone. But lately, the missing touch in his life makes everything else feel wrong. Wooyoung was the only person whose embrace made him melt, and even then, it never felt like enough. 

Seonghwa watches him go through the motions of contemplation before sighing softly. With a gentle movement, he tucks one of the longer strands of San’s dark hair behind his ear and forces him to meet his gaze. 

“If you want me to cut it for you,” he says quietly, not nearly loud enough for the rest of the room to hear, “just let me know, Sannie.” And maybe, San’s heart breaks a little.

The eldest had a way of saying everything he needed with just a few words. Seonghwa had lost someone he loved, just like everyone else, but he refused to shatter. Instead, he silently took all of their pain, balled it up, and held it against his chest as though that would protect them from it. And if he had it in himself, San would do the same.

“Thank you,” San says softly, eyes closing when Seonghwa hums and dips his fingers back into the black salt. When the touch returns, it’s tender. And that alone breaks San’s heart even more.

The final member is Wooyoung. It’s only fitting— to end with the one who started it all. 

The brunette shakes slightly as Seonghwa tends to him. Each brush of the intricate process makes the boy look like he is a step closer to the edge. It takes everything that San has not to rush to his side. But now, they could not interact. Those that were part of the ritual in such a way could not enter the space of another; it ran the risk of tainting the sacrifice. 

The word makes him clench his fists. Was that what they were? Sacrifices? Why had they all willingly agreed to help San and Wooyoung with something so dangerous? After all of the harm, all of the loss— they were all still prepared to continue giving up bits of themselves just to even out the hurt. What would happen when they had nothing left to give?

He was worried. Not for himself, but for Wooyoung. There was always the chance this would fail spectacularly. Would Wooyoung survive losing Yeosang a second time? Would he rest? Or would he offer himself to The Gate? 

San was never prepared to sell his heart. The night that he met Wooyoung, he was only staying at the hotel for a family reunion in the area. He was absolutely sick of hearing about his aunt’s newest charity case and his cousin’s greatest accomplishment as spelling bee fourth runner-up. Fourteen years ago. 

But the moment he stepped foot into that bar, the soles of his boots settling awkwardly against the putrid red, crushed velvet flooring, he knew that there was something he was supposed to see. Someone he was supposed to meet. It had felt like the air was made of warm, buzzing electricity. And when they locked eyes, he knew.

The man’s tumbling dark waves and shrouded gaze were enough to make his breath catch in his throat. When he made his way across the room, after ordering a rum and coke with a sweet smile, he could feel that weighted stare trace his every movement. And seconds after he selected a corner table from the handful of open seats, the brunette was there with a cat-like grin.

“Are you a witch?” 

San feels the blood drain from his face instantly. It had been a secret. His abilities, his family lineage, everything had been intricately hidden for hundreds of years. Leave it to him to be the first to give it all away with a look. 

But the guy tacks on a, “because I think you’ve cast a spell on me.” So, sue him if he laughed and offered the boy a wink. He was here to forget his family, just for a few hours, not offer up his soul on a silver platter to the first guy he locked eyes with. 

Or the first one that he pinned to the bathroom door of some ritzy hotel bar. And yet, that was exactly what happened. They made their way to the conveniently placed chapel just off of the main lobby of the hotel. It was a capitalistic scheme, obviously, but neither were in the right state of mind to think it through. Yet, San didn’t regret it.

He lost count after four drinks. But he could still remember it, months later, in bits and pieces. The way Wooyoung looked walking down the aisle– his hair still messy from their makeout. His smile was brilliant, dopey and wide, while the rent-a-priest ran through a Walmart-brand version of their wedding vows. 

He could remember slurring through each one and cackling when Wooyoung dropped their cheap metal rings on the ground. He remembered the way they rolled, one after another, across the wooden platform. And how they tinkled gently as Wooyoung declared the ceremony done, much to the priest’s dismay, and planted a sloppy kiss on San’s mouth. 

And he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Sure, there had been no marriage license. Their union wasn’t legal nor did anyone recognize it as official. But to San, it was as good as perfect. Until suddenly, it wasn’t. 

His abilities were a curse– uncontrollable and a plague on his entire existence. Sleeping with Wooyoung was meant to be the whole shebang. The kind where they woke up and realized what they had done. The kind where, before the younger could run away, San would ask him to go grab breakfast. Where he would get his phone number and they would meet up again for coffee dates. Where it would be a one-night stand that became one thousand. 

When he woke up, he was sweaty and in desperate need of a shower. So, of course, he would take the opportunity to use the complimentary soaps. He had paid for them, after all, and knew for a fact that this hotel in particular was centered around rosemary and mint. What he hadn’t expected, however, was his ability to rip him straight out of the water, as naked as the day he was born, and drop him on a thankfully isolated beach. 

San hoped for anything that Wooyoung wouldn’t be too angry when he got back to the hotel room. But it seemed that his prayers went unheard. The moment he walked into the main room, he felt the difference in the air. That warm, honey-laden buzz of electricity was nowhere to be found. And his one-night husband was gone right along with it.

It would be an understatement to say that San was shocked to see the very same man in the Utopia exam room. Even more so when they were roommates on campus. But the brunette’s reappearance wasn’t what drew his undivided attention. Instead, it was the blonde who glared in his direction every time San even tried to speak. And truly, he never could have imagined that the boy would be piss and vinegar incarnate. 

Kang Yeosang was a silent guard dog. The sort that could round corners without disturbing even a speck of dust, but wipe out armies in the same dance. His devotion was concrete and San found himself getting crushed under every tiny gesture directed at Wooyoung. 

Wooyoung, who was supposed to be San’s, but never actually was. That seemed as though it was obvious to everyone but the two men in question. After all, who was San compared to the spirit that had wound itself so tightly into Wooyoung’s life? Long before San was even a name on his lips. 

And he was ethereal. Seeing Yeosang in the mornings was like watching an angel descend from the heavens in the tender sunlight. Every second, every breath was calculated. He was grace and starlight wrapped in a delicate cocoon. 

When San and Wooyoung found a way to work for themselves, the older couldn’t bear to ask for more. No matter how deeply his heart yearned to hold the Necromancer, there would never be a chance. He had Wooyoung. And Wooyoung was just right for him. 

But that didn’t mean that it was easy to watch Yeosang lean against Hongjoong while the group studied together. Every time Seonghwa’s thumb brushed over the petal-kissed birthmark that rested just on the corner of Yeosang’s eye, San felt that familiar pull. It was like his heart tried to shred itself from the inside out, over and over, as it burned with that terrible ache. 

_ Jealousy _ . 

And the night he watched Yeosang raise the dead, it was something different. In every portion of itself, the emotion felt the same. Envy, by nearly all rights, was just a spoiled form of love, wasn’t it? He knew that much. 

He loves Jung Wooyoung. He loves Kang Yeosang. And just after they were given a second to bask in that warmth, the fizzy-pop feeling of being truly happy, it was ripped away from them. 

But where there is a beginning, there must be an end. And so, he remembers to breathe. 

Now, as Seonghwa paints the Grand Arcanum onto Wooyoung’s spine, San meets his lover’s eyes. They’re determined; burning with the same ember that he planted deep within his heart the first time they met. Jung Wooyoung was a fire that didn’t need to be stoked. And for once, San is glad to be out of the way of that ferocity. 

“Blessed be,” the eldest says softly, pressing a gentle kiss between Wooyoung’s brows. 

“Blessed be,” the magician repeats, bowing carefully. When Seonghwa stands up and clears the circle, resuming his spot next to Eden and Maddox, San watches the tension dissipate from Hongjoong’s shoulders instantly. Seonghwa, despite his air of stubbornness when it came to his friends, had listened to his lover. And for that, their de facto leader seemed to settle into his skin more comfortably. 

When the room stills, they know the time has come. Hongjoong places the palms of his hands together with a sigh. 

“If any deities want to smite us down, now might be your best option,” he says, earning an indignant squawk from Yunho. 

“Hyung! You can’t just say that,” the Illusionist whines, pressing his own hands together. “They might actually do it.” The other boy only chuckles in response. They work counter-clockwise, each person following the signage of the one before them. The top of a triangle, formed from just the middle and index fingers on both hands touching carefully. The middle then drops to complete the bottom half of a diamond. As they move around the circle, the black, purple, and silver candles catch flame. It was all too familiar to San. 

When it’s his turn to keep up the ritual, he hesitates. He doesn’t think it’s noticeable until Eden barks out a stern warning. 

“San, focus!” 

If he messed up now, the whole thing could go up in flames. Literally. So, with a sharp breath, he mends his mistakes as quickly as he can. When the amber glow spreads further around the small space, he knows the candles on his side of the circle have been lit. 

Wooyoung doesn’t wait even a moment before diving right into his portion of the spell. His nimble fingers work wildly as he runs through the gestures. Before San can blink, the final section of the ring is ignited. The first step was complete. 

As they run through the other gestures, it is difficult to focus on just one thing. Unlike the last time, there is no wind. Instead, the room is suddenly sparking with blue electricity. It bounces from each marking along the floor and ricochets between the mirrors in the center of the transmutation circle. 

San’s heart drops into his stomach as he watches the materials they have set out begin to mix and meld around the woolen heart the group crafted. Bit by bit, the molding of a clay figure begins to resemble something humanoid. It’s slow and distracting; the group focuses on the way the golem’s fingers are pinched and pulled into delicate shapes without anything touching them. 

“Pay attention,” Jongho hisses, watching San closely. “You, Wooyoung, and Hongjoong know Yeosang’s body the best.” And while he is partially correct, the assumption makes San’s heart clench uncomfortably. San didn’t know Yeosang’s body at all. They didn’t have time. 

He doesn’t say anything, though. Not when there is a greater task at hand. 

Instead, he focuses on the things he does know. The subtle curve of Yeosang’s rose-tinted lips. The way the inner corners of his eyes flick downward like a perfect teardrop. The straight-edge of his eyebrows and their gentle taper. The angel’s kiss beside his eye. The sharp points of his canines. 

There was plenty that San had memorized. He didn’t need to know everything, not yet. Maybe, not ever. 

They would have time for that later. 

As he watches the clay form into one of the two people he would give his entire being for, he realizes that they would most certainly have time for that later. 

But then, he hears it. The distinct sound of glass cracking. He hardly has a moment to register the way the mirrors begin to fissure, before suddenly, the room is filled with the iridescent shrapnel of each one shattering. And then, the searing pain of something being torn away from him.

Despite the agony, his first instinct is to fly to Wooyoung’s side. The brunette is curled in on himself, hands securely fastened over his ears, and screaming bloody murder. But he doesn’t seem to be injured. Rather, a glance around the room shows him that no one is. Physically, at least. 

Terrified of speaking, San debates taking down his barriers long enough to gauge everyone’s well-being. The moment he even considers it, though, he hears a voice loud and clear inside his mind. Deep and rich, it’s the same one that he never thought he would hear again. 

This time, there is no static blocking out its sweet tones. And before he knows it, tears are dancing down his cheeks, leaving salty trails in their midst.

_ 'San? _ '

_ 'Why are you crying?' _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✧ Find me on Twitter: [@KyojinOuji](https://twitter.com/kyojinouji)
> 
> I always follow back and love new friends.
> 
> \- Cheers! ✧


	3. corpus glorificatum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ✧ TW // Implied Self-Harm, Brief Description of Past Death/Injury ✧
> 
> ✧ The perspective changes multiple times in this chapter! The first section (marked by the lyrics and line breaks) is San's POV. The second is Yeosang's. The third is Wooyoung's. ✧

> _ “If this was meant for me, why does it hurt so much? _
> 
> _ And if you're not made for me, why did we fall in love? _
> 
> _ A knock at my door; I thought I was alone. _
> 
> _ Unaware of what I thought I needed, I drop like a stone. _
> 
> _ If I'm not mistaken, then I was the last to know. _
> 
> _ And if you return for me, I'd never want for more. _
> 
> _ You're dislocated– don't be like that. _
> 
> _ And you smile when you dive in– like you're never coming back. _
> 
> _ So hold my body, yeah, hold my breath. _
> 
> _ See your face when I black out. _
> 
> _ I'm never coming back.” _
> 
> **_Fear of the Water_ ** _ \- SYML _
> 
> * * *

“Yeosang?” San murmurs. The room shifts then, like two sheets of ice sliding against each other harshly. When San looks— really, truly looks— he sees the boy there. But it’s everything else around him that makes his glass heart shatter.

Yeosang had mentioned the Gate. Hell, they had all seen it on their way into the Tír na nÓg. What San didn’t understand was that the same stony structure would appear now. Only this time, there wasn’t someone standing with them that knew the way between worlds. It was just the six of them, seven if Yeosang’s naked, trembling form was to be counted. Of course, San would like to include his lover in the number, but the blonde wasn’t a price being paid at this auction. He was the object.

So, when San’s gaze locks onto Yeosang and then drifts to the ivy-covered arch, he can only offer a teary smile. Now wasn’t the time to rush into anything. Especially not with the others around him looking seconds from bolting into Yeosang’s arms.

_ ‘San, what are you doing here?’  _

His mouth doesn’t move. Why is his mouth not moving?

“Sangie!” Wooyoung cries, inching toward the boy. 

“Wooyoung, wait,” San whispers. “Everyone,” he tries again, hoping his voice doesn’t waver too painfully. “Something is wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong!” Jongho says loudly, shifting into an upright position. “We did it, he’s right there—“ he stops suddenly.

They all knew it. No matter how perfectly they had executed the steps of the ritual— the creature before them was not Yeosang. Not yet. They had only given the Gate a vessel to use for the time being.

“We haven’t paid the toll,” San mumbles, eyes unwavering from their lock on a spot just above Yeosang’s shoulder. As he says it, the Necromancer makes a guttural noise and slumps against the Gate with a pout. One knee pulls up until he rests his cheek on it carefully.

“You hear him, don’t you?” the golem asks. “The spirit who will enter this body.”

San nods, catching the attention of the group. He doesn’t dare make eye contact with Wooyoung. He can’t even imagine how the other would feel. Knowing that someone was hearing their lover, but it just didn’t happen to be him. The one whose soul was intertwined with Yeosang’s the longest.

“He’s here?” Hongjoong breathes, hardly moving. “Where is he?”

“Beyond,” the golem shrugs. “He calls to you— all of you. Just one seems to be able to hear his pleas.” The being narrows its gaze, ripping into the magicians as though they’re nothing more than choices in a lunch line. 

And maybe, they are.

“Have you set your price?” it asks.

This time, Wooyoung speaks up. His eyes alight with fire and brimstone, he shows no sign of backing down. 

“A sin from each. And a fragment of whatever one remains from each of us.” When his words settle over the room like a weighted blanket, San can feel just how heavy they are. “Or, if you so choose, you can take a bit of each sin from all of us. Equivalent Exchange seems like a bitch to calculate.” Despite his grin, it is obvious how unsteady Wooyoung is. 

The golem stares back for one beat. And then, two. Finally, a toothy grin spreads across its face. While it masquerades as one of the two men he loves so dearly, he cannot help the shiver that runs down his spine at the sight. That thing isn’t Yeosang. 

“A deal well-prepared,” it remarks, rolling a shoulder. San tears his gaze away from that distant point just as the thing cracks the joint there. “You’ve thought for the emotions of your boy, but I’m afraid you're missing something.”

“What could we possibly be missing?” Mingi barks out. His teeth are bared as he glowers in the puppet’s direction. Times like this are always the best reminder to never piss off their dear friend. While the Naturalist is a ray of sunshine and starfall, his ability to assert dominance stands above all else. Song Mingi is a force to be reckoned with.

“His mind, magician,” the Gate’s vessel quips. “How do you plan to retrieve his mind?” It glances over the room. There is no time to answer before the thing wearing Yeosang’s body shrugs. It could care less about their fate. 

It is then that the world begins to dissolve. While San struggles to stay awake, to smile when Yeosang is given back to them, he feels the way the Gate rips into his heart. It shifts and shuffles through his emotions, pushing and pulling the pieces it sees most fit, before its fingers retract like smoky tendrils. And San feels every bit of it. 

He feels the way his body aches when it rips that feeling of bubbling, neon green toxicity from his ribcage. The ill-fated drip of anxiety laced with the threat of his own worth. To surface, it brings with it the memory of Wooyoung’s gaze lingering for just a second too long on Yeosang’s lips. That horrible, buzzing itch just beneath his skin that came with every second Hongjoong wrapped his arms around the blonde’s waist. Or when Seonghwa would press a kiss to the Necromancer’s forehead. 

_ Envy _ . 

His skin crawls when he realizes that is not the only thing the Gate strives to pull from him. Of course not. They had to make ends meet to match the sins. However, the other feeling does not last for long. The exchange wasn’t for the entire sin, afterall, but it does leave a slight emptiness drumming within him. 

The nights of Wooyoung’s golden skin beneath the moonlit sky. Their silken sheets splayed around his body like leaves in autumn. Red bruises already coloring deeper, their path freckling his neck, shoulders, and chest. He remembers the warmth of physical love, but almost as though caught in a spring rainstorm, it grows chilled. 

_ Lust _ .

He can’t say that it’s a noticeable change. Afterall, he loved Wooyoung for more than the sex. The Gate only dipped in and took a little bit from him, yet San feels violated. They probably all felt the same way. How could such a creature reach its fingers into such intimate memories and sap out portions of their emotion? The thought makes San’s blood run cold. They would never get these feelings back. 

Before the idea can land its talons into his flesh, however, that tiny voice is back. 

_ ‘Will you regret it?’ _ ’ Yeosang asks. He is windchimes and the Lily of the Valley blossoms swaying in the breeze.  _ ‘I don’t want you to give up parts yourself, San.’ _

“That’s the last thing I want to hear from you, Sangie,” he mumbles. His mouth feels like it has been filled to the brim with cotton. And when he tries to look around, it feels as though his eyes have been cemented shut. When he finally manages to pry them open, he is still sitting in his spot on the transmutation circle. 

Glancing around, he takes in the room carefully. Seonghwa smiles softly when the two make eye contact. Hongjoong’s head is in the eldest’s lap. From where San sits, he can just barely see the pained expression that continuously flickers across the magician’s face.

And then, his gaze settles on the person he most desperately yearns to see. Night dances over them with her usual grace, only this time, one more soul sits alight in her moonlit blessing.

Yeosang is sitting cross-legged in the center of the circle. Maddox’s long coat has been wrapped around the boy, preserving his modesty, and the professors sit on both sides of him. Wooyoung is pressed against his shoulder as the younger sobs loudly. From what San can tell, no one else has regained consciousness. 

Nothing can stop the brunette from immediately bolting across the space to pull the two men into his arms. Wooyoung, tiny and frail beneath his fingertips, can only cry harder in response. As the three wrap around each other, San swears that he will never let go. One day, archeologists may have to pry the three apart if they want to study them.

“You’re really here?” San asks, finally pulling back enough to look the boy in the eyes. Yeosang nods once. 

_ ‘You did it,’  _ he thinks.  _ ‘You might need to be my translator for a while, though. I don’t know how long it will take for me to speak again.’ _

“Anything you need,” San says quickly. When Wooyoung gives him a confused look, San smiles. “We have our very own Little Mermaid.” It pulls a laugh out of the brunette. For the first time in months, Wooyoung wears the expression of brilliant, pure joy. And it’s everything San needs to see before he presses a kiss to the youngest’s forehead. 

They would be fine. 

Even as Mingi tearfully wakes and flings himself into their puppy-pile. Even as Yunho slings himself over Yeosang’s back and pleads him to  _ never–ever _ pull that kind of stunt again. Even as Jongho waggles a finger in front of his nose and flicks his forehead when Yeosang pretends to bite it. Even as Seonghwa pulls a dopey, sappy Hongjoong into the circle and Yeosang clambers over to them. 

Even as the group watches in abstract horror while the Necromancer in question presses his lips against Hongjoong’s. And then, just as quickly, he repeats the action to Seonghwa. 

They realize then exactly what the Gate was hinting at. 

_There was no equivalent exchange for memories._

**✧ ✧ ✧**

* * *

**_✧ ✧ ✧_ **

> _ “There's a war inside my head. _
> 
> _ And I'm drowning in regret. _
> 
> _ When the lights come down, got an empty crown. _
> 
> _ My body's missing pieces; can't pull it all together. _
> 
> _ My body's missing pieces; I wish I could remember.” _
> 
> **_empty crown_ ** _ \- YAS _
> 
> **_✧ ✧ ✧_ **
> 
> * * *

**✧ ✧ ✧**

How do you learn to breathe again? 

Yeosang thought that death was the most painful thing he would ever experience. That the way his bones broke when the cacodemon hit would never be compared to anything else. When his legs shattered, the tiny pieces of brittle glass holding him up just stopped doing their job. Everything did. 

But really, being brought back to life was worse. It was as though all those torn apart pieces and frail memories were trying to find their place in a home that wanted nothing to do with them. It was the agonizing push and pull of his heart as it relearned it one-two of beating. And the rush of warm blood that had stilled for so long in his veins. 

It was the way every emotion had been stuffed inside of him without rhyme or reason. And God, it was too much. 

The most painful thing, though, was sitting in the Gate– being fully conscious of every bargaining piece and step that his friends were taking to get him back. At first, he was angry.  _ Furious _ . 

Humans should never play God. Magicians, though, amped up on mystical Redbull and who knows what else, especially shouldn’t. 

But he had seen Wooyoung suffer. He watched the way his eyes lost their twinkle and his voice dulled. He couldn’t look at his best friend– his lover– without feeling himself grow queasy. Wooyoung had lost weight. His cheeks hollow. The bags beneath his eyes heavy and dark. 

And San, whose silence filled rooms more often than his laughter, never smiled. He hid from Wooyoung. Not physically, because of course, he was still there to hold their lover through the night. When the nightmares grew too vivid. When the drinks didn’t hit as hard. When life tried to drown them all. San was there. 

Except when he wasn’t. 

Yeosang saw the way that San curled in on himself when he thought no one was looking. When the others asked how he was, he waved them off with a shrug and returned the question. He let himself dig and dig and dig until he was almost at rock bottom. And Yeosang saw the way his gaze lingered on the metal edge of whatever was nearest.

He saw the time that San’s focus drilled holes into the discarded pencil sharpener on his old desk. And how the man's fingers twitched, as though desperate to unscrew one of the blades from its security. A move so familiar to Yeosang, his own flesh tingled with the endless want. He saw it, but he had no one to tell. 

The Gate made sure that he watched everything. And then, it took it all away without a second thought. 

Yeosang wakes with every memory intact up to the creation of the Beast. He remembers coming to Utopia. He remembers their friends. He remembers the beginning of the ritual. But everything following is static. Rustic, broken static.

But when the group panics and pulls him away from the two men that he was supposed to be head-over-heels in love with, he suddenly feels like he remembers nothing at all. 

Because when he turns to face Wooyoung, there is a separate presence that looks every ounce of obliterated as Yeosang feels. 

He remembers silently loving Wooyoung. He remembers the thunder of loving Seonghwa and Hongjoong.

So, why does San look so devastated?

**✧ ✧ ✧**

* * *

**_✧ ✧ ✧_ **

_ “I'll use you as a warning sign; _

_ that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind. _

_ And I'll use you as a focal point; so, I don't lose sight of what I want. _

_ And I've moved further than I thought I could, _

_ but I missed you more than I thought I would. _

_ And I'll use you as a warning sign; _

_ that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind _

_ And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be–right in front of me. _

_ Talk some sense to me.” _

**_I Found_ ** _ \- Amber Run _

* * *

There is a silence that cannot be broken as Wooyoung watches the man he has spent years loving run into the arms of someone else. Again. How many times did something like this need to happen until they finally had their happy ending? How many times did he have to feel the agony that throbbed and tore through his limbs; the sorrow of losing him? 

“Yeosang–” Hongjoong says, a deep blush dancing down his face and neck. When the boy looks up at him, his dark eyes filled with the terror of being wrong, Hongjoong finds Wooyoung’s gaze across the circle. It’s empty, numb, and cotton-stuffed. Like a favored plush bear pushed into a cardboard moving box– the kind that never leaves the top shelf of a bedroom closet. 

Wooyoung nods his head. It’s subtle but speaks volumes among all else. Even as San reaches for his hands, fingers trembling, Wooyoung does not waver. And it takes everything to move forward. To breathe. 

So, Hongjoong does what he can and sucks his teeth. He rolls the words over his tongue over and over as Yeosang cocks his head, just enough to the side that his long bangs tumble into his eyes. Seonghwa reaches out, his own fingers shaking like autumn leaves. He tucks the blonde strands behind one of the Necromancer’s ears with the tenderness of a feather falling from the heavens. And not for the first time, Wooyoung has to wonder if that is exactly what Seonghwa is. 

A fallen angel. A blessing to the Earth. Not the scourge that seems to constantly run through the younger’s life, burning his crops and desires like a night-bound terror. 

When Hongjoong pulls Yeosang back to his chest and presses a gentle kiss to the crown of his head, Wooyoung wonders why things have to be so difficult. But before he can push too far, before he can burst the bubble of security he has so tenderly thrown around himself, San’s thumb is rubbing carefully circles on the inside of his wrist. It’s so gentle that Wooyoung isn’t even sure the other boy knows what he is doing. So, with his head held high, he resolves himself to do the only thing he can.

He doesn’t cry, even when the tears threaten to spill down his cheeks. He doesn’t even whimper when Eden pulls Seonghwa and Hongjoong aside fist. And for some reason, his knees don’t buckle when Yeosang wobbles over to him with the balance of a newborn fawn and cuddles into his shoulder. Instead, he stands tall. He stands proud. And he stands certain. 

Because against all odds, they’re together again. 

Yeosang’s skin is no longer ice cold and tinted with that dark cerulean blue. His lips are bright pink, albeit chapped, and spread into a soft grin when Wooyoung brushes his thumb over the birthmark beside the older’s eye. Usually, the blonde would huff and shove him away when the attention grew too intimate. Usually, Yeosang would pout and say that he didn’t have time to cover up the discoloration. 

But today, he leans into the touch. And today, Wooyoung breaks just a little more when the boy sighs. 

“Welcome home,” he whispers into Yeosang’s hair. “You didn’t keep your promise, you know.” As he says it, the other wiggles just enough to pull himself out of the embrace with a frown. He must say something to San through the mind link because suddenly the brunette is chuckling. 

“He wants to know what the hell you’re on about,” San says, leaning against Wooyoung’s side. His weight is a welcome warmth.

“We didn’t find the key, but you left.”

With a pout, Yeosang rolls his eyes and gestures at himself. 

“He says,” San grins, “that he’s the only treasure you need.”

It’s then that Seonghwa makes his way back to the group. His stare dances for a thousand miles as he approaches them, only locking onto Wooyoung when he is a few steps away. The eldest looks like he has been pulled through a year’s worth of emotions all at once. And in reality, he probably has been. Afterall, it’s not every day that your ex-boyfriend comes back to life under the impression that you’re still in a relationship.

“Sangie, Eden has to borrow San and Wooyoung for a few minutes, okay?” he says gently, intertwining his fingers with Yeosang’s when the younger holds out a palm. “We’re going to stay over here with Jongho, Mingi, and Yunho.” Before the older can lead him in that direction, Yeosang casts a pointed look toward San. 

With a gasp, San smacks at his arm. “We’re not going to talk shit about you, asshole,” he grumbles, dimples popping up when the blonde grins wildly. He must say something else because San rolls his eyes and spins away on his heel. 

And God, that shouldn’t make Wooyoung’s heartstrings tug so sharply, but it does. Like poniards being shot into him– one after another. In another life, he would look like one of those carnival workers strapped to a spinning board. In this life, though, he is just the Ten of Swords- sentient, betrayed, but somehow breathing. How is he still breathing?

Eden smiles when they approach. Hongjoong, however, glares daggers into the wood paneling of the lecture hall. When Wooyoung clears his throat, the older jumps as though he didn’t even realize that they were standing there. 

“Wooyoung, I’m so sorry,” he mumbles. It doesn’t take long for him to train his focus back onto the pen-scribbled tips of his canvas hightops. If Wooyoung looks closely enough, he can make out the white butterfly that Hongjoong added to their fabric face most recently. 

“What are you apologizing for?” Wooyoung asks slowly. He knows. Of course, he knows. But that doesn’t mean he is going to let the situation slide that easily. 

“This,” Hongjoong says desperately, gesturing in Yeosang’s direction. “He thinks that we’re still together. After everything, he’s still under the impression that you’ve never loved him. And…” He drifts off. But Wooyoung finishes for him with a gentle sigh.

“And he thinks that San hates him.” The Traveller in question makes a startled noise next to him. “So, why is that your fault, hyung?”

Hongjoong doesn’t say anything. And that alone is enough for Wooyoung to reach for his wrist carefully. As he intertwines their fingers, he realizes just how dainty the other man’s hands are. How could someone so strong look so tiny in his grasp?

“None of this is because of you. Not a single second.” As he speaks, Hongjoong lifts his head slowly. “If you keep trying to balance the world on your shoulders alone, you’re going to get pretty damn tired,” Wooyoung adds with a shrug. 

While he doesn’t expect the older to cry, he also isn’t prepared for the bone-shattering hug that he gets pulled into. 

“Thank you, Wooyoungie.” 

As they separate, Eden clears his throat quietly. 

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but I do need to know your plans.” He cocks his head in the direction of the group. They have fallen into a conversation, one where they laugh and shove at each others’ shoulders. And for a moment, nothing seems off. It’s like the past. 

But then he sees it. The way Yeosang glances back at him, panic lacing his expression for a glimmer, before he latches onto Wooyoung’s gaze. While there is a massive gap in the boy’s memory, there is something else. The unwavering knowledge that comes with one of his disciplines at Utopia. And the understanding that something went terribly wrong; even if he has no idea what. 

“Yeosang is scared,” Wooyoung says. “Who wouldn’t be? He was brought back into a mirror situation of what happened that night. Whether or not he remembers the first ritual, I’m certain that waking up naked in a circle of your friends isn’t exactly the best feeling.”

“He knew right away,” San murmurs. “I don’t think he knows what happened, but he definitely is aware that he died. And that we risked everything to bring him back.”

“It’s only right that we ease him back into everything,” Hongjoong adds. “You would want that for yourself, yeah? I mean, no one wants to be kept out of their own mind like that.” 

“So, what do we do?” Wooyoung asks, brows furrowing. He wonders if the others are overhearing this. Or maybe, if Eden threw a silencing spell around them before they dove into the nitty-gritty. “Are we supposed to just play happy family until we have power points ready to go detailing the last few months?” 

For a second, humor flickers across the other three faces. And yeah, maybe it would be an ideal way to reveal all of the details. But for Yeosang, or anyone with a heart and mind, it didn’t seem like the best decision they could make. So, instead, San offers him a tender smile. And Wooyoung accepts it like a delicate flower carved from ice. 

“We have time,” San says, wrapping an arm around Wooyoung’s waist. “For once, we have time.” 

“We’ll take it slow and feed him information bit by bit. Starting at the beginning and working our way through,” Hongjoong adds. 

“I just miss him.” It’s an unsung ballad. Wooyoung doesn’t even know why the words leave his lips. Still, he meets San’s warm stare with a broken sigh. “I know he’s right there, and that I should be by his side, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.” 

When San presses a butterfly’s kiss to the bridge of his nose, no doubt picking up the salt of his silent tears, he feels the other man’s desperation. 

_ ‘In time,’  _ San’s voice whispers deep within his mind. They rarely opened the mental link between them. San was respectful of everyone’s privacy, never wanting to push too roughly on anyone’s walls. It was as though he feared a single touch would send them all tumbling; bricks and ash alike. _ ‘We’ll find him again in time.’ _

But once again, Wooyoung found himself wondering just how much time anyone had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✧ Find me on Twitter: [@KyojinOuji](https://twitter.com/kyojinouji)
> 
> I always follow back and love new friends.
> 
> \- Cheers! ✧


	4. spirit of salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ✧ TW: Past Suicide, Eating Disorder (not described in-depth, but does appear) , Mentions of Death , Mentions of Cancer ✧

> _ “And here is a song for the empty. _
> 
> _ A prayer uttered into the ground. _
> 
> _ For the broken king, with his arm in a sling; _
> 
> _ And his hands holding on to his crown.” _
> 
> **_Self Portrait_ ** _ \- Keaton Henson _
> 
> * * *

The Physical Kids’ cottage was filled with warmth for the first time in what felt like eons. Like confetti from an unfortunate glitter popper, students were everywhere. And yet, no one pushed. No one shoved. No one questioned why a ghost of their past was standing before them; nursing a red solo cup of whatever jungle juice they whipped up on a whim. 

Magic was funny that way. It had a habit of making even the most unexpected events passable. Maybe that was why, when the group brought an exhausted Yeosang back to his Utopian home, the other residents just smiled and pulled him into one tight hug after another. So, maybe it was the commonality that came with magic. Or maybe, it was the desperate way they all needed something positive to cling onto. 

And it was the happiest they had all been in months. But, for Wooyoung, it was like flipping through the photos of a scrapbook of things that Yeosang  _ might _ have forgotten. What could he say to the older man as he stuck to Hongjoong’s hip like a terrified moth pulled from the embers of a wilting bonfire? 

While that was not exactly the situation at hand, it had a tendency to feel that way. After all, the original etymology of a bonfire was “bone-fire”. Here, however, there were no bones that Wooyoung wanted to burn. No thoughts that he sought tirelessly to set aflame. Quite the contrary, if he could build a house of memories and lead Yeosang by the hand through every room, to examine every crack, crevice, and salty tear, he would– in a heartbeat. 

His past was pooled by fire. Why would he wish the same upon his future?

So, when Yeosang changes into a fuzzy sweater that falls just to the midpoint of his thighs and refuses to do much else but giggle behind a sweater paw, who is Wooyoung to stop him? Instead, he snuggles into San’s side as the group sits scattered around the rectangular coffee table in front of the fireplace. Its wooden surface is littered with nearly three dozen kinds of crystals– enough to make them seem like the Psychic dorms instead. 

Wooyoung smiles when San tells them Yeosang’s most recent comments and nearly cries when he watches the older boy press a soft kiss to Hongjoong’s cheek. He accepts the weight that settles in the base of his throat, like marshmallow goo without the sweetness, and says nothing. 

“You’re tired, aren’t you?” Seonghwa asks the blonde. Yeosang glances back at him, soft eyes half-lidded, and nods gently. Without much ado, the eldest stands and offers a hand to help Yeosang from the couch. “I’ll take you up to your room,” he says; his voice careful. It had taken a god-awful amount of time to explain exactly what they meant when they said Yeosang was declared a mixed-discipline student. Even more so when they told him that he had his own room at the cottage.

When the two disappear from sight, Hongjoong’s shoulders visibly drop. With a panicked expression filtering over his face, he turns to Wooyoung. 

“This,” he breathes, motioning between himself and the staircase that leads upstairs, “can’t go on. We need to talk to him.”

“I didn’t think it would be this hard,” Jongho whispers. It’s not as though Yeosang could overhear them talking from this far away, but the idea of speaking about the person they just pulled back from death’s door wasn’t exactly comfortable. 

Hongjoong leans forward until his elbows rest on his knees. The dark dye job he did to his hair has begun to fade again, leaving behind an even mossier tone. In another life, Hongjoong could easily belong with the fae. Hell, they already knew he could rule an entire kingdom. 

“Maybe his memories will be like his voice,” Yunho suggests with a raised brow. “The only reason he can’t speak right now is because his vocal cords are still too fragile. It could be the same thing with his mind.”

San snorts, nuzzling against Wooyoung’s neck. “Yunho, you say it like he’s a car battery that needs to warm up.” 

Yunho shrugs and pulls his drink closer. The man had become distant in his own way since Yeosang died. Out of everyone, Wooyoung had expected him to protest the most blatantly to the concept of resurrecting the Necromancer. Instead, though, Yunho only wanted the best for all of them. If that meant redoing the ritual that killed one of his boyfriends, so be it.

It’s at that moment that Seonghwa reappears at the base of the steps. He looks tired, his eyes rimmed red but still celestial. Truth be told, Wooyoung couldn’t remember a day when the man didn’t look like he walked right out of a high-end magazine. 

“He’s asleep,” the Healer says, settling onto the couch. “He hit the pillow and literally passed out before I could tuck him in.”

“Is he at least under the covers?” San asks, cocking his head. “He gets sick easily, so if he isn’t–”

“Sannie,” Wooyoung interrupts. “Why don’t you go check?” 

When the brunette glances back at him, there is a moment of weakness that ripples over his features. San was a heart skewered with a dozen, jewel-encrusted daggers. If you pulled one, he would bleed out in seconds. So, when he kisses the space between Wooyoung’s brows with all of the grace of a newborn snowflake, it’s obvious that one of those blades has already been pulled. 

“I’ll meet you in your room?” the older murmurs against his skin. Wooyoung nods and reaches out to thread their fingers briefly. It’s a careful squeeze, but it’s enough to remind him he is breathing. He just had to keep breathing. 

San flickers out of the room a moment later, leaving blue sparks in his wake. They bounce off of the wooden table like electrified marbles before pittering out of existence. With every single one, Wooyoung feels his own thoughts ache. 

“He has to hurt the most,” Wooyoung finally says to the silence of the group. “Before the Beast, they weren’t on bad terms, but…” He drills holes into the palm of his hand, remembering the silvery marks that line Yeosang’s. “Well, you all know. San loves harder than he knows how to live.”

“Why don’t we just ask Yeosang what he remembers?” Mingi asks, rolling one of the quartz pieces between his fingers. “I feel like it would be stupid to keep dancing around the topic.”

“I don’t want to overwhelm him,” Wooyoung mumbles. His thumb finds its way to his mouth. For once, he hardly even feels the sting that comes with the way he tugs on a stray hangnail. “Everything that happened– I can’t imagine him taking it well all at once” he adds, not wanting to meet anyone else’s gaze.

Hongjoong hums quietly. “Mingi is right, though. I know you want to protect him, Woo, but you know better than anyone else here that Yeosang is strong.” The elder’s hand lands on his shoulder gently. His palm radiates the kind of fatherly aura that Wooyoung never truly got to experience from his own family. 

“Right,” he whispers. Almost silently, a weight settles onto the couch and curls against his side. Wooyoung barely has a second to process the youngest before Jongho grabs the back of his neck. With a forceful grace only the Student of Knowledge could manage, he maneuvers Wooyoung until his head rests against Jongho’s shoulder. 

“I know this might sound cliche, but you’re really not alone anymore, Woo,” he says. “For better or for worse, it’s not just you and Yeosang. Now, you have a whole herd of bastards to keep you up at night.” 

There are tears in his eyes as he speaks, but the magician’s elegance has always been far above anything Wooyoung ever expected. He pushes on easily. “You’re stuck with us, you know. So, if we sit him down and slam all of the info into his lap, there will always be someone beside both of you.”

Mingi reaches across the table to take Wooyoung’s hand. “And San too, of course.”

A body slings itself over the back of the couch and presses a kiss to Wooyoung’s cheek. When the brunette registers San’s presence, it’s as though his limbs have melted into the furniture. San settles on Wooyoung’s other side, grinning wildly at Jongho’s unusual clinginess, and mirrors the position– successfully trapping the Physical student in a comfortable-love-fest sandwich. 

“I thought you were going to wait in my room?”

San sighs and shakes his head, air-chilled nose brushing the warmth of Wooyoung’s neck. “I realized that we forgot to talk about something,” he says. The room fizzes with electric silence; weight bearing on San’s words. 

“What would that be?” Seonghwa asks, his voice hardly cracking the ice. 

“Our sins,” the Traveller says, finally pulling his face away from Wooyoung. “We should figure out what everyone lost to the Gate, right?”

Yunho chuckles, folding his arms behind his head. “What is this? Catholic confession hour?” Despite the humor in his voice, a look of fear flickers across his expression. It would be a lie to say that Wooyoung’s heart didn’t plummet as San spoke as well. 

Years ago, he would be thankful for losing his specific sin. In high school, it would have been an honor. It would have saved him from feeling so worthless, so despicable when he stood before the changing room mirrors and stripped his clothes after dance practice. Or maybe, it would have only made things worse. 

But life had a weird way of showing irony. And so, years of recovery made the emptiness in his chest ache. It makes the bees under his skin beg for release and the flowers that sprout from his ribs spread into a sickly garden. 

“Mine was envy,” San answers before anyone else can supplement their own response. “It’s funny really. All my life, I was jealous of everyone that walked past me. I loved their hair, the way they breathed, the shape of their nose, their expensive cologne, you name it.” He stops for a moment, resting his head against Wooyoung’s shoulder. 

“I was jealous of Yeosang, for being loved by Wooyoung. I was jealous of Wooyoung, for being the only thing Yeosang ever saw. I was jealous of Hongjoong and Seonghwa, for loving each other and then going as far as to love Yeosang too. For being able to openly show how much they loved him. I was jealous of Mingi, for smiling when everything tried to tear us down. And Yunho, for following his heart and letting nothing stand in his path. And Jongho, for knowing everything he wanted and finding determination where it seemed impossible. 

I was jealous of the guy I saw in the mirror every single morning. The one who could have a purpose if he tried just a little bit harder. The one that looked like me, but didn’t have to go through the day wondering what was next. I was envious of everything that moved and beat myself up over whatever imperfection I could nitpick. So, maybe it’s a blessing that it’s gone now.”

The room is silent. All lingering party-goers had since dispersed, only the scent of weed and whiskey lingering in the wake. But what surprises Wooyoung the most, is that the room stays silent. For a beat. For two. And then, Mingi is speaking. 

“Similar note, I guess,” he murmurs. One big swig of his room temperature jungle juice and he’s rubbing the bridge of his nose like he’s fighting off an oncoming migraine. “I can’t look in the mirror anymore. I didn’t know what the Gate took until I walked into the bathroom too piss and made direct eye contact with someone I have never seen before.”

The comment catches Wooyoung off guard. Only months ago, he was using a mirror to communicate with Yeosang from the Tír na nÓg. Only months ago, he was the reflection his best friend saw staring back. Was something trying to contact Mingi in the same way?

“I feel like every portion of my self-resolve has been shattered. It’s like everything I’ve worked for is worthless. My confidence is non-existent and the moment I’m faced with my own reflection, I can’t even recognize who it is. Because the person I see is exhausted, terrified, and shrouded in darkness.” He leans forward until his forehead presses against the cool wood of the coffee table. 

Yunho gasps, connecting the pieces. “Your pride,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around Mingi’s waist and pulling him back until the younger rests between his legs. “Oh baby, I’m so sorry.” 

Jongho scrambles to the Naturalist’s other side. “Mingi, darling,” he whispers, pressing a featherlight kiss to the back of the strawberry blonde’s neck. “Can you look at me?”

When he does, his eyes brim with unshed tears. 

“You, my angel, are the most stunning thing to have graced this planet,” he murmurs. “Every day, I wake up and wonder how you and Yunho both managed to get through everything from your past. I have never once looked at you and saw someone incompetent.” 

“I’m not saying that I feel like I haven’t achieved anything. I know what I’m capable of,” Mingi cries suddenly. “I’m afraid that I haven’t done enough. Like— I can’t even tell if this whole thing is because of the Gate or if it’s just taken this much time for me to realize that I’ve hardly done anything with my life.”

Yunho sighs, pressing a kiss to the crown of Mingi’s head. The air in the living room has shifted to something painful. Tense, yet bristling like pine needles on the forest floor. One step in bare feet would be a world of agony.

“You were one of the top gifted students from first grade until graduation. The only reason you didn’t place as the valedictorian was because your pet goldfish died the week before final exams and you were the one who had to flush him,” Yunho rambles off, digging his fingers into Mingi’s hair. “When the results of my brother’s biopsy came back, you set up an entire craft fair and bake sale to help us pay for his treatment. And after the accident, you wrote some really shitty poem about petunias and stars—“

“I thought it was good,” Jongho interrupts. There’s a gentle smile dancing across his lips as he does so. “I thought it would have made Daeho smile.” He doesn’t flinch as the older boy clings to him; shaking like a butterfly amidst a violent storm.

“I didn’t raise enough money though,” Mingi sobs into Jongho’s chest. “The treatments didn’t work.” 

And Wooyoung remembers it now. The story of Yunho’s brother, fed to them in bits and pieces, and strung together like popcorn tinsel. 

Jeong Daeho was the eldest of the three brothers. In high school, he had befriended Jongho while they were on the same basketball team and later formed their own band. Like the rest of them, he was a magician. But during his first year at Utopia, he drowned in the pond that the student body avoided like the plague.

It was only recently that Wooyoung learned why the enchantments on the landmark were so horrifying. They were equal to a death trap. Once someone set foot in their vicinity, the wards fed off of their deepest fears and greatest desires. Some had called it a silent siren song. Others said it was like a beacon guiding them home. Either way, the pond was the most well-known suicide spot on campus. And for that, it held its own ghosts.

“He didn’t die because of the money, Mingi,” Jongho whispers, massaging shapes into the blonde’s scalp. “Daeho lost a different battle.” 

The admission sucks the air out of the room. Even Yunho, whose body shudders with the statement, says nothing as Mingi finally crumples. Jeong Daeho was a victim of two diseases. And truly, it was hard to say if either could be cured.

The conversation ends as quickly as it began. No one else reveals what sin the Gate took from them. It hadn’t felt right to do so while Mingi was curled up on the couch; finally resting. Really, it didn’t feel right to do any of this without Yeosang either. 

It’s in their room, when San’s figure is pressed into his back with one arm thrown haphazardly over his waist, that Wooyoung finally speaks up.

“We should tell him,” he whispers. For a second, he wonders if San is actually sleeping. The man had a way of breathing so quietly that he often felt like he would need to hold a mirror beneath his nose just to see if he was alive. But when he feels the brunette nuzzle into the loose waves that fall out of his little bun, he knows that the other is awake. 

“Are you sure?”

Wooyoung rolls until they are face to face. In the silver mist of the moon, San’s delicate freckles mimic the specks of an ancient treasure map. He can’t stop his fingers as they run up and down the tender patches of skin— plotting the route of an invisible ship. Who would have imagined finding love in something so human?

“They’re his memories,” Wooyoung says softly. “Who are we to keep them from him?”

San hums and folds into the touch like a cat. “I miss him. I miss the way it felt with him beside us.” He shifts onto his back and throws a single arm over his eyes. Wooyoung does need mind-reading abilities to know that there are tears beneath it. “I dream of it sometimes. Holding his hand. Kissing his cheek. Fuck, last week all I could think of was how his hair looks like molten gold when the sun sets and the way it runs through my fingers when I try to tuck it behind his ear.”

“San—“

“It’s pathetic, isn’t it?” San gives him a broken smile, but his eyes are still covered by his arm. “He was yours first, but I’m acting like I had the worst loss out of all of us.”

“It’s not,” Wooyoung whispers. “I had a terrible loss, and God, I broke. I shattered into a million pieces and expected you to clean them all up. And for some reason, you did.”

San peeks out at him, face damp. Wooyoung squeezes his shoulder before continuing. 

“You put me back together and got me help. So, I think you have every right to take a turn turning yourself into crystallized shrapnel. As long as you promise that you’ll let me put you back together. Like one of those ceramics projects from Japan where all the cracks are mended with gold.” 

Wooyoung doesn’t remember when San stopped crying. But he does remember the sound of the older’s breath slowing until he finally— finally— fell asleep.

In the morning, it’s the gentle weight on the edge of the mattress that wakes him. The way it dips is subtle, but he still rolls toward it, just enough, to feel the warmth of someone radiate through the thick comforter on his bed. When he breathes in deeply, vanilla sugar drips over his senses like visions of a life once lived so fully.  _ Yeosang _ . 

“Wooyoung?” the older whispers, leaning closer. His voice is so raspy; still recovering. Long strands of his hair dance across Wooyoung’s cheek, tickling the sensitive flesh. “It’s morning. Hongjoong told me to come wake you both,” he says. Wooyoung wonders for a second if it hurts for him to speak.

And maybe it’s the peace that laces his voice, like a memory from distant horizons, but the brunette falls victim to its song so easily. 

Sleep-addled and desperate for normalcy, he digs his fingers into Yeosang’s hair as though it is the only real thing holding him to the Earth. The other boy freezes, for just a moment, before he settles into the touch. And honestly, Wooyoung doesn’t know who moves first. But within a breath, there is a faint brush of lips against his own. 

Sighing, he lets Yeosang cup his jawline with tender grace. Being treated like an ice sculpture under the threat of melting was never something that he usually enjoyed. With Yeosang, though, it felt natural. The older wasn’t doing it to taunt him. He wasn’t doing it to desecrate their actions. He was doing it because that was how they had always been. 

But it’s when he feels the pressure of the other man’s lips on his that he realizes just how far they’ve misstepped. 

“Sang,” he mumbles into the featherlight kiss. “Yeosang, wait.”

And Yeosang does. He stops abruptly and pulls away from Wooyoung. But that isn’t what breaks the younger’s heart. What really shoves the tapered end of a long-stemmed rose deep into his chest is the sight of Yeosang’s flushed cheeks. His pupils are blown wide, mouth plush, and the delicate pink of his birthmark is stark against the sunset tones of his skin. 

Yeosang is beautiful, but the crestfallen look on his face is the only thing that Wooyoung can see. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, already stumbling back a few steps. Wooyoung, though, follows him. “I’ll meet you downstairs,” he says, trying to get away from the inevitable conversation. The younger is faster, though, as he latches onto Yeosang’s wrist. 

“Did you remember?” Wooyoung breathes. He knows not to let his hope grow its own wings. Especially not with San still sleeping so soundly in their bed. When he sees the way Yeosang’s eyes widen, however, it still feels the same as having flown far too close to the sun. Wax dripping down his sides, he lets the corners of his lips melt as well. 

The last thing he wants is for Yeosang to feel apologetic. Scratch that, the last thing he wants is to make a decision for everyone that isn’t present. With a soft smile, he runs his thumb in a minuscule circle along the dip of the older’s wrist before letting go entirely. Before Yeosang can protest, he holds up a finger to his own lips. 

“We’ll talk about it. Just forget I said anything for now,” Wooyoung whispers, glancing toward the door. “Let Hongjoong know we’ll be down soon. It’s going to take San a few minutes to get his ass out of bed.”

Yeosang nods, his gaze narrowed, and starts to take his leave. However, at the last second, he turns back to face his best friend with the level stare of a predator. 

“I don’t know how you expect me to forget something like that,” he says, shifting on his heel. When the door closes again, Wooyoung feels his knees begin to shake. So much for acting like everything was normal. 

Warm fingers caress the bare flesh of his neck, gingerly connecting two souls. The brunette leans into his lover’s touch; a ship lost at sea finally pulling home to port. 

“Were you awake that whole time?”

San hums in response and smiles against the curve of his t-shirt collar. 

“And you didn’t want him to know?” 

“Would you?” the older asks. “Before the Beast, you and I were a little obnoxious, don’t you think? The number of times Yeosang was sexiled by us was extensive. And later on, when I actually got to talk to him about my feelings, he told me that he felt like he was being taunted.” He dots the mole beneath Wooyoung’s eye with a kiss. 

While the magician had known vaguely that Yeosang was harboring those thoughts, it didn’t make him any more comfortable to hear that it was the absolute truth. Especially not when there was a chance they were right back at that point. 

“Why do you think he let me kiss him?” Wooyoung mumbles. “He didn’t really react.” When he glances at San, the man’s dark eyes glitter with that desperate emotion.  _ Hope _ . Cursed-fucking-hope.

San shrugs. “You had something before. Even if it was just friends-with-benefits or whatever, there was still a physical sense to your relationship.” He disentangles himself from Wooyoung with a groan. Morning muscles. “Not to mention, he just came back from the dead. Everything is probably more than a little confusing right now.”

“You haven’t read his mind, right?” 

The question sparks in the air like wildfire. They never really spoke about the Psychic’s abilities when it was just the two of them. There wasn’t a need. But now, there is. 

“Why would I do that?” San’s voice is low. It’s deep enough to be a growl but balanced. “Wooyoung, you know I don’t do that sort of thing.”

“San, I didn’t mean–”

“You still said it. So, you’ve obviously been thinking about it.” Instead of getting angry though, instead of blowing up and letting Wooyoung have it for even suggesting such a concept, San crosses his arms. “I understand why you would want me to, but Yeosang put his barriers back up. He let me know last night when I stopped by his room.”

“He was still awake?” Seonghwa had said that the Necromancer passed out the second he hit the pillow. 

San nods, fiddling with a beaded bracelet around his wrist. “He woke up for a second when I came in. His voice wasn’t strong then, but he told me that I should give him today to push himself. So, I wasn’t going to question it.” The older’s arms find their way around Wooyoung’s waist. “I know that you just want things to go back to normal, baby, but I think this might be ‘normal’ for a while,” San says. 

Breakfast is, to say the least, like walking on eggshells in a room full of blind-folded bulls. What starts as a careful dance around the topic at hand while Seonghwa fried eggs and bacon on the stove soon developed into a full-blown warzone. And for once, it wasn’t San or Wooyoung’s fault. 

“I’m just saying,” Yunho explains wildly, gesturing around the room, “if we had a Pensieve, everything would be so much easier!” 

Mingi, who had stopped slathering strawberry jam on his biscuit long enough to listen to his boyfriend, makes a guttural noise before slamming the knife on the table. The red goo spits onto the wood, mimicking a sticky crime scene, and Wooyoung has to pull his jacket sleeve away before the light grey material is tinted. As a result, his orange juice spills everywhere immediately. 

As the group delves into panicked chaos, Mingi yells, “We’re not in fucking Harry Potter! We’re not even in England–” 

“Both of you,” Jongho interrupts, exhaustion wiping his features. “Please, for once, relax.”

“You’re not angry?” Yunho whispers. “You’re usually the first one to lecture us on table etiquette.” Instead of responding, Jongho just shrugs and helps Wooyoung cast a quick cleaning charm. However, the exchange doesn’t seem to escape Hongjoong’s notice. 

“I forgot to tell you,” the older says, twirling a spoon in his morning tea mindlessly. Wooyoung can’t imagine that there is any more sugar left to dissolve in the bottom, but still, the magician seems intent on keeping his hands busy. “I dropped your notebook in the sink last night. I tried to dry it as best I could, but anything written in ink was smudged.” When Hongjoong finishes speaking, the youngest’s mouth drops open.

“My notebook? Do you mean my Book of Shadows?” he asks slowly. “As in my grimoire? The one that I spelled with an eternal content charm so that I could keep everything in that one notebook forever? As in the very thing I’ve been keeping all of my practices, rituals, and research in since I was ten years old?” His face is flushed and the air around them is alight with electricity. The brimming magic that Jongho’s fingers seem to glow with in the morning sun. 

“That one,” Hongjoong supplies, narrowing his eyes. “Is there a problem with that?” 

It’s as though a switch flips in the student of knowledge’s head. Within seconds, the tension filters out of the room as though it was never there at all. And in turn, Jongho falls silent. He simply leans back in his chair and breathes in deeply. 

“It’s fine,” he grits out. “I’ll make a new one.” 

It’s then that Wooyoung realizes exactly what plank Hongjoong had forced Jongho to walk. 

“Wrath,” he says under his breath. It’s just loud enough to catch the room’s attention. “The Gate took your wrath.” 

Yeosang clears his throat. It’s a broken sound, scratchy and painful, but enough that Wooyoung knows immediately what he’s asking. 

“To get you back,” Wooyoung directs at Yeosang, “we all had to give up something. There’s a lot we didn’t account for though.” 

And then, Yeosang does the unspeakable. He smiles. 

Within his eyes, galaxies dance beneath the radiance of whatever sun lives within his bones. Whatever celestial force graces the garden of spilling flowers that thrive between his ribs. And it’s within that smile, and the gentle touch that brushes over Wooyoung’s knuckles, that he finds home again. Out there among the cosmos, tethered only to a single being. And then two, when Yeosang carefully intertwines his other hand with San’s.

“My memories,” the blonde offers quietly. “Seems like a pretty big something to forget.” And maybe the beat of silence that falls between them shouldn’t be followed by peals of high-pitched laughter. But it is. With each cacophonous sound, the room grows brighter. And from those, their song blooms once more. Things weren’t normal. But in time, whatever this is would replace what it meant to be normal before. 

“Oh I’m sorry,” San snarks, rolling his eyes. The mischievous tone, though, is paired with something beautiful. His toothy grin and prominent dimples as he cocks his head far to the side. “We had a few other concerns with resurrecting your ass.”

“I think we might have left a little bit off of it,” Wooyoung suggests, winking when Yeosang lets out an affronted gasp. For a moment, even if it's just a breath, it’s as though nothing happened. Wooyoung cannot stop the thought as it hits him like a noon bullet train. Would this have been their present if things hadn’t spiraled out of control? 

Would they have found a group like this if Utopia didn’t exist? Their time with the Fae showed him one thing for sure: some bonds stretched across universes. In this realm and at least one other, they were all still friends. And for once, that was good enough for him.

There was no sense in dwelling on the what-ifs and have-nots. They were here. They were breathing. And they would see one sunrise after another; together.

“I overheard you last night,” Yeosang says while they’re putting their dishes in the sink. “You and San. I kind of pieced it together.” As he speaks, his teeth find a piece of chapped skin on his bottom lip. Wooyoung watches him gnaw at it with mild interest. If he tugged too hard, there would be blood. And at this point, the brunette wasn’t sure if his own thoughts referred to the skin or Yeosang himself. 

“Pieced what together?” Wooyoung urges. 

“Us.” It’s the sound of wind chimes in the spring breeze. Ocean tides brushing iridescent shells. A pin dropping in a silent room. “That’s why I didn’t say anything this morning,” he adds carefully. “I don’t remember any of it, but I do know that things have felt off. I noticed it with Hongjoong and Seonghwa right after the ritual; like they were hiding something from me and were so tense whenever I tried to touch them. And everything with you has always been this way. Electricity pooling into an open body of water.”

He rinses off one of the knives covered in strawberry jam. The vibrant scarlet tones give way to rose as it drains down the sink. 

“But with San, everything felt different. It felt natural. And that’s how I knew,” he says with a smile. “I don’t really understand  _ what _ I know, but I think we have time to figure it out.”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung murmurs, pressing a swift kiss to the older’s temple. Yeosang fights back playfully, batting at the brunette’s chest with soap-sud covered hands. When Wooyoung’s arms wrap around his neck, he stops moving. Only this time, the smile that paints his lips is radiant. 

“We have time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✧ Find me on Twitter: [@KyojinOuji](https://twitter.com/kyojinouji)
> 
> I always follow back and love new friends.
> 
> \- Cheers! ✧


	5. axiom of maria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ✧ TW // Eating Disorder Mention, Past Self Harm Mention, Descriptions of Mental Illness ✧

> _ “Summer arrived while you were asleep. _
> 
> _ The days are sweet and sun-fading. _
> 
> _ I want for nothing, nothing at all. _
> 
> _ The night is a blanket seamed with teeth. _
> 
> _ I don't know why it seems so sweet. _
> 
> _ It might be nothing, nothing. _
> 
> _ But autumn arrived while I was asleep; _
> 
> _ The leaves are collecting in our street. _
> 
> _ I can do nothing, nothing.” _
> 
> **_The Night is an Ocean_ ** _ \- Winter Aid _

* * *

Papers jostle across the desk as Wooyoung shifts his weight on top of them. They hadn’t been at this long; flipping through pages of ancient textbooks that had to have been published before 1980. Even so, the room was filled with wobbling stacks. For a moment, San wonders what would happen if they took a break. Maybe, they could even build a tiny fortress out of them. 

It’s when Wooyoung’s ankle meets the dip of his waist that the Traveller settles back into reality. 

“You’re thinking pretty loudly,” he sings, cocking his head to the side. From where he sits, tucked away on top of the mahogany desk in Yeosang’s room, he glows like an angel silhouetted in the dying sunset. “Penny for your thoughts?” His hair is loose, long, and curls prettily around San’s finger as he twirls the dark strands for a breath. 

“Just tired,” San says, letting the other boy’s hair dance back into its place against Wooyoung’s cheek. “Yeosangie looks peaceful.”

The blonde had curled up on the window seat hours earlier. While at first, he seemed determined to read through the text he picked up, it was almost impossible given the exhaustion that seemed to consume him lately. Living, by every meaning of the word, simply took a lot out of him.

His eyelashes rest gently against his cheeks as Yeosang sighs softly. In his sleep, the tension doesn’t web between his brows. His nose isn’t scrunched with desperate concentration. It’s as though all of the horrors of their life simply don’t exist. Even if it is only for hour intervals.

Wooyoung glances toward their sleeping lover. Or rather, the one who was supposed to be. Anymore, it was impossible to know how Yeosang truly felt. And within the week since he returned, they hadn’t really talked about the elephant in the room. Instead, they learned to navigate around it. 

“His neck is going to hurt,” the brunette murmurs, shifting slightly so that he can swing his legs over the desk. When his bare feet touch the floor, he shivers slightly. As though the chill of the world settles over him all at once. When he stops in front of Yeosang, a smile graces his lips. The older boy had discarded his book before passing out with his neck stretched awkwardly to one side.

According to Wooyoung, Yeosang’s sleep habits had always been questionable. From what San remembered of their time in the dorm, that statement definitely held true. So when Wooyoung carefully lifts the older magician off of the uncomfortable window seat and carries him haphazardly to his bed, San can’t suppress the chuckle that builds in his throat. Some things never changed.

Yeosang makes a quiet noise once his back settles into the mattress. And like a flashbulb coating the room in yellow light, a memory surfaces in San’s mind that swells his heart with that bubbly feeling of warmth. 

Byeol, his family cat, makes a similar sound if anyone interrupts her nap. It’s a comparison that makes him snort; even as Wooyoung shoots him a panicked glance. Yeosang, however, doesn’t wake. Instead, he turns onto his side and buries his nose into a bunched up fuzzy blanket. 

“We should let him rest,” San whispers, gently grabbing Wooyoung’s wrist and pulling him toward the door. However, the brunette stills. “We should go grab dinner,” he adds, trying to prompt the other forward. 

“I’m going to keep reading in here,” Wooyoung says. His voice is light, like feathers on top of a crystalline pond’s surface, but San knows that the depth beneath them is unfathomable. “I’m not hungry.”

“You weren’t earlier either,” San says, leaning against the door frame. “Woo, I know that things aren’t normal right now, but you can’t miss meals.” He tries to offer the younger a reassuring smile, but in a breath, his mistake shines through. 

Wooyoung seems to curl in on himself as he takes Yeosang’s empty window seat. His face is barren of emotion– a blank slate for San to draw his own conclusions. And so, the physic does. He waves carefully, spins on his heel, and tosses out the most tender phrase he can pull to his lips. 

“I love you,” he murmurs, hardly catching the way Wooyoung flinches with the words. Still, he sees it. And it does not hurt any less. 

His feet carry him down the brick campus paths slowly. Somehow, the crawl of his pace isn’t enough to help him plot a course of action. While he had set out in search of a place to grab a quick sandwich and something to take back to Yeosang and Wooyoung, the open breeze of the courtyard pulled him through College Green as though he didn’t have a goal. 

It didn’t surprise him. Feeling lost like this wasn’t new in his life. However, it was as though a threat loomed on the horizon and he was the only one not pulling his weight to batten down the hatches. At first, losing his envy was a blessing. Deep within, though, it held a curse darker than the night’s abyss. 

With that toxic, bubbling jealousy, there was determination. Desperation. A fire drenched in gasoline. But without it? The world was just fucking sad. 

It was like when his parents told him he could take medication to make the bees under his skin stop begging to be let out. They had always been there, thousands of buzzing bodies and beating wings of chitin and gossamer. But when the doctors delivered obsessive-compulsive diagnosis like some wicked Hogwarts letter, he knew that the medication wouldn’t help. It could stop the itch, the shaking limbs, and anxious energy, but what would be left of him when it finally kicked in? 

So instead, he opted for the non-medicinal treatment. The kind where they sat him down in a room with bookshelves and a cherry-wood desk. Where the chairs were made of an absurd material that didn’t feel like anything in particular and that, as a result, made his skin flare up like a thousand burning suns. It was too smooth; too much like nylon, lycra or spandex. And god, he wouldn’t admit it, but that only made the sessions so much more unbearable. 

How did someone expect you to know what they were saying when you most certainly could not hear them over the fabric of your seat? It was too loud, too overstimulating. And by the time he had been attending the meetings for over a full year, he still didn’t know the exact count for the breathing exercises that were meant to ground him. 

_ Breathe _ . 

He finds himself in Eden’s office before he processes the walk there. And by the time he comes back into his mind, realizing just where he ended up, there is a cup of tea cooling in front of him and a half-eaten sugar cookie. 

Across from him, Maddox reclines on one of the couches, a book laying over his face, but clearly awake. Eden, however, is staring intently from one of the other seats with a bizarre frown on his face.  _ Breathe _ .

“Sorry,” San whispers, taking in his surroundings slowly. “I must have popped in on auto-pilot.” With a sigh, he picks up the mug in front of him and takes a long sip. It’s bitter, cold, and definitely not something he ever wants to taste again. Yet, a glance toward the headmaster makes him reconsider spitting the liquid back into the cup. 

He knows that Eden can’t exactly see the grimace that he pulls, but he can most certainly feel San’s disgust. With a laugh, the older magician shrugs. 

“I would have been less alarmed if you actually did ‘pop in’ here, San,” he says, folding his hands in his lap. “You actually used the door this time. Knocked and everything. It was a little bewildering.” As Eden speaks, Maddox adjusts himself into an upright position on the other couch. 

“We spent about twenty minutes talking you through breathing exercises before you finally gave us a run down,” Maddox adds, leaning against the armrest. “All we managed to pull from you, though, is that you figured out what sins everyone lost.”

San hums, this time switching out the mug for the cookie. One bite lets him know that it’s freshly baked. With a sigh, he hums again– this time, happiness floods his features. God, he missed homemade snacks. 

“Not verbally,” he says once he manages to shove the entire treat in his mouth. Its sugary coating melts on his tongue like honey. “But it’s been easy to put together. I mean, Hongjoong hasn’t slept for more than ten hours total in the last week. Yunho is basically the second coming of Christ with all of the donations he’s made recently to random organizations. And Wooyoung,” he pauses, his gaze fixating on the tips of his boots securely. “I can’t get him to sit down and eat anything more than a granola bar.” He lets the words drip from his tongue like acid. 

Wooyoung’s story is not his to share. But, knowing the younger’s past, San can’t deny that he is scared absolutely shitless. The Gate had a horrible sense of humor. If he ever came face-to-face with it again, he was going to rip it apart brick-by-brick as if he was challenging the Bastille itself.

“You all made brave sacrifices,” Eden says softly, “but it will always hurt to see the ones you love make even the smallest one.”

“I’m beginning to believe these weren’t small sacrifices.”

“Did you ever have a doubt?” Maddox supplies. 

San leans forward until his head rests between his knees. Of course, he knew the cost of his actions. Ripping apart one’s soul and transplanting it into another was never meant to be painless. But in the end, it was supposed to be worth it. They were supposed to be happy.

Eden shifts, the air in the room moving with him. “San,” he says quietly, “I know that things are difficult right now. I promise you, though, we are keeping a close eye on everyone involved with the ritual. If things start to teeter too close to the metaphorical edge, we’ll be there to catch Wooyoung. Or anyone else that falls victim to their situation.”

Maddox leans over just enough to settle his palm over San’s knee. With all the serenity of an amethyst bathed in the moon’s silver light, he smiles and cocks his head to the side. “You know, I’m not just trained in Battle Magic, right? I’m a Healer for a reason. You’re in good hands, as unbelievable as that might seem with recent events.” 

San nods, the weight on his shoulders not feeling any lighter, and makes to stand. However, his movements come to an abrupt stop when Eden clears his throat. Raising a brow, the Psychic casts an odd look in his direction. 

“It won’t save all of your problems,” Eden murmurs, “but there are more books in the library than we have available for students. Even those within the bounds of Knowledge’s discipline are unaware of a portion of my personal collection. However, I’ll make an exception for you all.”

“Is there a catch?” San asks. When Eden doesn’t respond, the brunette produces a strangled noise. “What is it with you people? Why is there always some dangerous rule that we have to follow so eyes don’t get ripped out of our heads?” As the words leave his mouth, his jaw immediately snaps shut. For once, he wishes that he knew when to stop. Before he can apologize, however, Eden is chuckling. 

“You’re not wrong, however, this one is more or less a request by my own making.” He waits for San to protest, but the younger magician stands silently in front of him. “There is a restricted section-”

“Fucking Harry Potter-ass,” San mumbles. He pinches the bridge of his nose with a groan but fights back any further complaint when Eden’s lips quirk up at the edges.

“All that I ask is you don’t go inside.”

“And you think that will fly well with my friends?” San asks. “Have you met us? We practically summoned Satan on a dare.”

Eden’s expression grows serious. 

“It’s warded, San. If anyone was to set off those protections, I can guarantee that you won’t find the answer you’re looking for.”

“You’ll practically open Pandora’s Box. Except it won’t be near as fun,” Maddox offers. So, with a grimace, San holds out his hand until both magicians shake it. This time, they wouldn’t let magic ruin their lives so easily. That much he was certain of. 

“A secret library?” Yeosang asks, hardly glancing up from his midnight waffle. The little beast had woken up hungry and nearly took off with an entire loaf of bread from the Psychical Kids’ cottage. “Is there something in it that is supposed to help us?”

“Maybe,” San shrugs. The kitchen is quiet tonight. With most students asleep, for once, it was just the two of them. Wooyoung was still somewhere upstairs, absolutely knocked out on Yeosang’s bed, and probably wouldn’t wake up until noon. Regardless of the class that he was supposed to have at nine. 

Yeosang hums and dumps another load of syrup onto his meal. The sight instantly makes San shudder. How the boy could practically drink sugar was something he could never understand.

“And he told you that there’s a restricted section we can’t even look at? Does he know who we are?” 

“That’s exactly what I said!” San whisper-shouts. No matter how alone they were down here, that didn’t mean that they had to disrespect the rest of the Physical Kids. Especially when San was only an honorary member of the cottage given his relationship. 

The blonde uses the final bite of his pastry to chase globs of the sickly-sweet sauce around the plate. “So, what’s stopping us from checking the whole thing out?” Yeosang asks, pushing his fork into his mouth. 

“I mean...nothing. Classes, maybe?”

Yeosang stares back at him. Not for the first time, San can see him. The boy he fell in love with. The grace of a pink petal settled just beneath his eye catches the synthetic light of the kitchen. And it's that moment that makes him pause. 

Because this Yeosang remembers it; the way they were before the world went to hell. But he also seems to know more. As though his mind wants nothing more than to peer through the imperfect glass surface of whatever the Gate placed between him and his memories. So, for a breath, he can’t help but wonder if they weren’t trying to pull the past out of thin air. Maybe, the memories were tucked neatly into a darkened corner of his mind and stitched up with crimson thread. 

While San is not a Physical magician, there are a few party tricks that he picked up over the years. Closing his eyes, he holds out his left hand and slides his right over it gingerly. And then, as though he is picking up a ball from the center of his palm, he lifts and drops thin air. Like a claw machine operating underwater. 

A small ball of light appears suddenly. Its surface radiates warmth. With a smile, San basks in the golden rays that spill off of it, dancing across his cheeks like summer breeze. When he glances at Yeosang, the boy’s eyes are wide. His irises glow in the energy that the tiny, man-made sun pours onto him. From this close, they’re truly a dozen different colors. Honey brown, with flecks of golds and greens. In one, San swears that the ocean itself makes its home in a single dot of cerulean. 

“What are you doing?” Yeosang asks softly. His voice is quieter than a cat’s bell. Rather than responding immediately, San holds out a hand. With a raised brow, the blonde rounds the corner of the table. Tenderly, he places the tips of his fingers on top of San’s. 

“Dance with me,” the brunette whispers. “Just for a few minutes.”

“This is a cliche, you know,” Yeosang chuckles, but he doesn’t decline the offer. Instead, he settles his free hand on San’s waist. “There’s no music.”

“Would it be a cliche to say that we don’t need it?” 

Yeosang hums, letting San spin them in a tiny circle. The kitchen isn’t massive, and there certainly isn’t enough room to commit to a full waltz, but San would do it if they could. 

“I think it would definitely be one, yeah,” Yeosang murmurs. The miniature sun orbits around the room, casting shadows against empty liquor bottles and Poptart boxes. If they look closely enough, maybe they would find some of life’s mysteries there; tucked between the ancient cookbooks and shelves that no one ever dusted.

“Well, tonight’s the night, Mr. Hallmark movie,” San says, lowering Yeosang into a dip. The blonde tips backward easily, his eyes falling shut with the action. In another life, would they have met? Would they spend time together like this?

When he pulls Yeosang upright again, there is a stillness in the room. However, as the sun flickers out of existence, the warmth doesn’t flee with it. It lingers, hugging their skin like a blanket fresh from the dryer.  _ Tonight’s the night _ .

“Yeosang?” San asks, waiting for the older to open his eyes. When he does, he’s met with a far off expression, filled with longing. In a second, his heart shatters as a single tear rolls down Yeosang’s cheek. It ghosts over his birthmark, highlighting the pale color, before teetering off of his jaw and onto the floor. If San was closer to the tile, he knows there would have been the lightest sound. 

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” the Necromancer whispers, furiously wiping away the dampness. “I’m sorry. We were having a moment and I just–”

San can’t stop his thumb from running just beneath Yeosang’s eye. It brushes the pink mark at the corner, collecting whatever salt remains. 

“Never apologize for showing your emotions,” he says softly. “There was a time when I thought we would never see them again.”

Yeosang doesn’t say anything. Instead, his hand comes up to rest on the one that San has settled against his cheek. And truly, San doesn’t know who moves first. But when he feels Yeosang’s soft breath on his lips, he understands. 

Carefully, he leans into the kiss. There aren’t fireworks or falling stars. It’s just a delicate kiss; sweet like maple syrup. One of missing memories and lost time. And when Yeosang sighs into it, threading his fingers into the dark strands at the back of San’s head, the brunette goes with it willingly. He deepens the kiss just enough to pull an almost purr out of the other’s chest. 

Behind him, the table’s edge bites into his back. However, the pain is dull compared to the electricity that buzzes through his veins. Years ago, he wanted to open them up just to sneak a peek at the bees he was certain had made his body into their home. Now, he knows that it’s just magic. And possibly, a cacodemon he never released.

When Yeosang pulls away, San can feel his heart hammering in his chest. A hummingbird caged in an empty warehouse; begging to be let out. And he can’t stop the words from leaving his mouth. 

“How much do you remember?” 

The older boy shakes his head. “The first ritual. Reviving Jongho, mostly. Bits and pieces from the attack in the lecture hall. But after that, everything is a complete blur.”

“Yeosang,” he says carefully. Treading ice before a fire. “Do you want to remember what happened after?”

“Would it be selfish for me to say yes?” Yeosang asks, taking a step back. 

San reaches for his wrist. With a chuckle, he intertwines their fingers. As though they hadn’t missed a day. 

“I’m pretty sure you get to be selfish for once,” San smiles. “I’m only asking because I am more than prepared to work my ass off looking for a spell. I just wasn’t sure if you were doing this to appease everyone else or if you actually want to remember.” The eye roll that Yeosang tosses his way is more than enough of an answer. 

“You just want a chance to break into Eden’s restricted section.”

“I mean, that’s only a bonus.”

There were many times in his life that San had been wrong. But none of them had compared to the world of hurt he had landed them in by even suggesting that they visit Eden’s personal reserves. 

The moment they set foot into the deep, dark trenches of the stacks, the eight of them scattered like mice on a mission. But after nearly two weeks of searching, they turned up with nothing. It was obvious that the group had begun to give up hope. So, it didn’t surprise him when the group of eight soon dwindled to four. 

San, Wooyoung, Yeosang, and Jongho sat in an oddly shaped circle on the floor of the reading area. Beneath his fingers, San couldn’t stop himself from picking at the short red shag of the intricate rug while the others poured over information. The texture was absurd and distracting. Every time he tried to focus on the text in front of him, the words seemed to lift off of the page and swim around until he forced himself to blink deeply.  _ Breathe _ .

“I’m going to look for more books,” he mumbles, excusing himself from the group. As he passes, Wooyoung squeezes his hand gently before giving him a quick pat on the thigh to send him on his way. 

After the night with Yeosang in the kitchen, San made sure to sit down with both of them to talk things out. Their feelings, their worries, and their expectations. And somehow, Yeosang just listened. 

“So, we did do this before?” Yeosang had finally asked after San confessed his love for what felt like the millionth time. “Why didn’t you all tell me sooner?”

Wooyoung glanced at his hands quickly. A fluorescent blush had already spread across his cheeks, painting him like a winter sunset, but it didn’t seem to deter Yeosang. Instead, a cocky look manifested over his expression. 

“I can’t wait to remember how this went the first time,” Yeosang laughed and reached for Wooyoung’s fingers. “Something tells me that I was probably a wreck.”

“You were,” Wooyoung had whispered. “But I think I was worse. You brought up something about Cheerios and donut trees.” 

Evidently, it was Yeosang’s turn to glow scarlet. “I told you that?”

“You told him that,” San said with a grin. “And it was adorable, honestly.”

And now, trying everything to help Yeosang get those memories back, San can’t stop the terror that ices over his heart. What if they never could fix it? How does someone live their second life while dancing with the thoughts of their first?

As he turns the corner of one of the shelves, a door he knows for certain has never been there glimmers from the end of the alley. It’s tall and painted an olive green so vivid it could rival the namesake. Stunning petunias have been carved into its surface, enamoring small, intricate bees pushed in gold ink. And on its mossy-colored face, a sign has been taped haphazardly. 

“ _ Restricted _ .”

“My ass,” San mutters, hardly processing the decision before he is approaching the entrance. ‘If you didn’t want someone inside of it, don’t leave such a clear invitation,’ he thinks. Unsurprisingly, the crystallized knob doesn’t budge when he gives it a jiggle. 

He could give up. He could walk away and actually go look for books they had yet to flip through. He could listen to Eden, who was kind enough to even let them come here. But none of those options aligned with his goal. 

With a sigh, he closes his eyes. 

Traveling was always one of his least favorite feelings. It was like turning on a TV to complete static, but in this case, those black and white pixels were fizzing just beneath his skin. And they were moving so quickly that his own heart had an impossible time keeping up. Until finally, he was just an invisible firework flickering in and out of space. And when all those bits finally came back together, it usually felt like he just climbed out of a shower powered by hellfire. 

Only, this time, he feels nothing. 

The room is nearly pitch black, lit only by the silver glow of moonlight.  _ Moonlight _ . At three in the afternoon? 

He lets the thought pass by without an issue. Time always passed differently when they came to Eden’s library. There were no windows; no clocks. It was just an abyss of pure academia. And while that was a wet dream for any Knowledge student, San had a particular distaste towards being absolutely lost. 

Moving through the room, he realizes there is only a single desk, chair, and bookshelf inside. It’s odd, especially for something Eden is so protective of. Even more so when the brunette takes in the thick layer of dust that covers nearly every surface. Obviously, the Master of Knowledge hardly came in here. 

From the desk, San lifts a scroll of parchment. Blowing gently, he watches as a cloud of dust flutters into the air, catching the moonlight, and glitters like iridescent shards of glass. It’s when the particles remain suspended that Eden’s words come back to him.  _ It’s warded, San. _

And maybe his mind would have done better to remind him of it earlier. As he sucks in a sharp breath, unthinking, a sharp pain begins to spread down his throat. _ Pins and needles. _

It’s as though the powder floats off of every surface in the room to gather in the same spot. And a glance around the area only confirms the thought. Frantically, he waves a hand through the thickening cloud of dust. It’s just as his bare skin comes in contact with the particles that the prickling sensation starts. With a silent cry, San sees the blisters that begin to inch their way along his body.

And he knows he should run. Travel. Do anything to get out, but his legs are frozen in place. 

An acidic paralysis ward. Chemical warfare, equivalent to Battle Magic, that had been long since banned. It was a good as torture if placed into the wrong hands. With this much? San had little hope of escaping on his own. 

Especially as his attempts to travel back out of the Restricted Section are blocked by what seems to be an internal magic neutralizer. He could use his abilities to get in, but the room itself blocked all magic inside of its wards.  _ Fucking wonderful. _

Even as his body collapses, knees shaking and tremors already working their way through his figure, there is only one thought on his mind. 

‘They’re going to be so pissed at me,’ he thinks. 

With a terrified breath and the sheer memory of the creature crawling around beneath his skin, tied to him until San chooses to sever the bond, the magician uses the last of his energy to utter a nearly inaudible, “Go free,” before the world swallows him whole. 

_ “I can’t tell if you’re brave or just incredibly desperate,” a creature whispers, pulling San out of the inky black that he floats through. While he cannot see it, he knows that the cacodemon is disappointed to be utilized for something so trivial.  _

_ “Both is a decent answer,” San offers. When the demon snorts, it resembles a backward growl. “So, is this where I sign my mortal soul away to you for all eternity?” _

_ For a few moments, it doesn’t respond. And then, laughter fills the abyss like a limitless ballad. At this point, San would much prefer a lullaby. _

_ “I suppose you could call it that, but I’ll be honest, your request was easy work. So, instead, I think it would be more interesting to do you a favor.” And he sees it then. An arm appears from the darkness, reaching toward him slowly until his chin rests between two sharp claws.  _

_ “What sort of favor?” San whispers as one of the pointed talons digs into the soft, sensitive flesh just under his jaw.  _

_ “Your friend? I can remove the barrier blocking his old memories. However,” the cacodemon’s face appears before him. Its skin glows like starlight, but its eyes flash between glimmering gold and liquid emerald. Hundreds of transparent teeth reflect the light, glassy and sharp, just as a forked tongue snakes out between them. “I won’t do it for free.” _

_ San’s heart skips a beat. It has been a barrier all along. Without thinking, he lurches forward. Even as the creature’s nail dips into his skin, no doubt drawing blood, he cannot feel the sting.  _

_ “What’s your price?” he asks. It doesn’t matter how much he tries to level his tone. There was no steel found in his emotions right now. Only breathless energy and the sense that some part of this was far too easy. No matter how loudly his rational brain screamed, though, the one powered by his feelings spurred forward.  _

_ “Your magic. All of it.” _

_ And for a moment, San pauses. His magic; his heart and soul. He could live without it, that was certain, but was it a price worth paying? He would give up nearly anything for Yeosang and Wooyoung.  _

_ What would happen to him if he gave up everything? Would they still stop to think about him? Would they stay in the cottage and dance in the kitchen to silent songs, lit only by a synthetic sun? Would Wooyoung remember to love himself just as much as he loved others? Would Yeosang know that he was worth every bit of happiness? That he was allowed to be selfish? To breathe?  _

_ Even without magic, he would still be himself. And with it, they would still be themselves. _

_ As a sacrificial lamb walks to slaughter, unthinking of its own doom, San follows in its footsteps.  _

_ “You have a deal.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✧ "Baz, stop writing angst!"   
> The Baz in question: 👁👄👁
> 
> Find me on Twitter: [@KyojinOuji](https://twitter.com/kyojinouji)
> 
> I always follow back and love new friends.
> 
> \- Cheers! ✧


	6. arbor philosophica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ✧ TW // Discussions of Illness ✧

> _ “Honey here we are, dreaming in the dark. _
> 
> _ Trouble seemed so far, share thoughts for hours. _
> 
> _ But now we dream apart, now we dream apart. _
> 
> _ Oil and water. _
> 
> _ But I'm just content with time well spent; _
> 
> _ Savour the taste of sugar.” _
> 
> _ Milk & Honey - Billie Marten _
> 
> * * *

The coffee pot beeps, but he pretends not to hear it. Filling his mug with the dark, bitter liquid would be the same as admitting defeat. He has to walk back into the office, sit in his tiny plastic cubicle, and act like the world wasn’t on fire. He had six new cases to sort through and a pile of evidence that his neighbor insisted would help them find a particular culprit. The guy who kept stealing their lunches from the break room fridge; silent like a wraith. 

But San knew for a fact that wraiths were never silent. Or at least, the ones he knew most closely weren’t. 

And he also knew that he had been the one stealing lunches. 

“San?” someone asks from the entryway. Their rich voice startles him straight out of whatever tangent his mind had dove into. With a gasp, he knocks into the glass carafe of the coffee pot, sloshing the hot liquid around dangerously. Thank the gods he wasn’t taking a sip at that exact moment. 

When he turns around, a brunette in uniform stands behind him with a hand on his hip. Surprisingly, he is one of the few coworkers that San is familiar with. However, he can’t say that they’ve really had enough conversations to actually know each other. Another blessing is the name tag that has been pinned to the agent’s breast pocket.  _ Lee Minho. _

“Minho,” San says, playing off his shock. “What’s up?” He hopes that it’s a convincing enough act to make the other boy move on without steeling him with his patented _ ‘I don’t know what you were up to, but I know it was stupid’  _ look. However, when he locks eyes with the man, a sharp eyebrow disappears into the cinnamon strands that dance over his forehead. 

“Hyunjin said you were back here,” the older boy throws out, shouldering up beside him to steal some of the coffee San worked tirelessly to make. Without magic, things were so much more difficult. “I heard your mysterious benefactor sent you another case,” the agent adds. 

_ Mysterious benefactor.  _ Though, it was true. Every few days, a new set of information was thrown his way from a burner email. Despite being particular about their spam filter and cyber-security, the head of IT, Changbin, had yet to figure out their origin. It was as though something was scrambling the IP each time in an impossible jigsaw. 

The cases in question were always well within his range of capability too. More often than not, they were correlated in some way to the Fae. It was as though the person behind them knew him better than he knew himself. Like they knew his past. 

San finds himself nodding mutely before Minho shoots him another bizarre look. With a sigh, the black-haired boy leans against the counter. There was no point in avoiding the conversation, especially knowing that his coworker would track him down until he had a straight answer. 

“It’s a rogue case,” San murmurs. “Some magicians are on the run and whoever has been sending the emails is concerned they’re going to reveal the existence of magic to the general public.” 

Minho frowns, emptying a small cup of cream into the dark depths of his mug. “Why would they want you to be involved with something like that?” he asks. The brunette reaches past San to snag a thin black stirrer from the tin. “It’s not like you’re a match for magic anymore.” The silence hangs between them awkwardly before the older man’s expression turns apologetic. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” San mumbles, chewing on his bottom lip. “You’re right anyways. It’s weird.” 

Minho gathers his drink but stops to place a hand on his shoulder lightly. San was getting tired of the way people looked at him. Like he was a broken doll that no one wanted to play with anymore. 

“Don’t overthink it,” the agent says, finally turning on his heel. “Just do your job and get out, yeah?”

“Yeah,” San agrees. Minho’s form disappears around the corner before the ex-magician can let out the breath he was holding. Why was he the one getting these emails?

When he finally settles back into the uncomfortable mesh chair at his desk, his mind is a thousand leagues under the sea. He had only been with the Strays for a month, but within that time, the group threw him straight into work. 

The Strays were an agency of contractible shikari with the task of surveying magical beings across the world. The group itself was filled to the brim with eight wild cards. None of which San had managed to pinpoint yet, though he was certain over half weren’t human. Without them, he would have been absolutely lost. Especially now, when the month passed without Wooyoung or Yeosang even attempting to reach him. 

Being honest, San’s memory was glitchy. It wasn’t as though he forgot anything. However, it was becoming harder to think clearly. Details were foggy unless he really tried to pull them out of the mist. 

**

After that night in the Restricted Section, San woke up to the mint-green walls of the infirmary. The first thing he felt after arranging the deal with his cacodemon was the icy weight of dread. It started between his shoulder blades and spread to his toes, tingling all the way. 

And he was suffocating. There was something positioned over his nose and mouth, forcing in air. He couldn’t stop himself from scrambling into an upright position, dragging nearly a dozen separate wires and cords with him. With a panicked groan, he tried desperately to pull the hard plastic away from his face before the realization set in.

An oxygen mask. 

The first person to come running was a human nurse with long brown curls and doe eyes. But he didn’t have time to process her features too intensely before she was guiding him back against the pillows. 

“Please, sir! You have to leave the mask on,” she pleaded. “Your lungs are still blistered.” Behind her, the painted backdrop taunts him.

The infirmary’s walls had always been white. Their staff, while extensive, was made up of people that San knew through Seonghwa. Through classes. Through the magical history books that told of every old, prominent magician family. And this nurse was not one of them. 

She smiled at him and adjusted the mask with a delicate pat on top of his head. “Do you know where you are?” she asked, curls bouncing. It could have been pretty if his heart hadn’t been threatening to evacuate the premises of his chest. 

San frantically shook his head and focused on pushing away the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. He wouldn’t cry. 

“You’re in O’Bleness Memorial Hospital in Athens, Ohio. It appears that you were in some form of chemical attack,” the nurse said carefully. As she spoke, San could feel his heart grow cold. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

And of course, he remembered it. However, he had no idea why he was no longer within the boundaries of Utopia. While the college was hidden somewhere in the Hocking Hills forest, there was no reason for him not to be in the infirmary. There was no magic radiating off of this nurse either. She was completely human. 

So, he shook his head. He watched as the bright look she had plastered on her face dissolved into sympathetic concern. 

“That’s alright,” she mumbled. Gently, she reached out toward him only to see the magician jump with the action. “I just want to take your mask off for a little bit. You’ve been out for about three days. Some hikers found you at the end of their nine-mile trail. When they brought you in, you were covered in blisters and chemical burns.” 

And he realizes it then. His body was only numb thanks to whatever painkiller was being pumped into his veins through the IV. But a glance at his arms shows him all that he needs to know. 

They were wrapped in bandages, some dotted disturbing yellow while others were stained with a vibrant red. If he bends his elbow, the colors spread. He imagines that the pain does too. 

Fuck Eden’s shitty wards. 

He let the nurse remove the oxygen mask with a grimace. His lungs stung, an addicting reminder of his obsession with overdoing things, and his lips had been impossibly chapped.  _ Three days _ . Had they looked for him? Why was he here; alone and cold? 

“Can you tell me your name?”

“San…” The voice that left him was unlike anything he had heard before. Broken, scratchy, and hopeless. It made his heart plummet almost instantly. “My name... is Choi San.” The last part comes out garbled and rocky. The nurse nodded before patting him on the head gently. She had to be an older sister.

“Well, San, we can’t let you leave until we have you back on your feet, okay, bud?” His frown must have grown deeper because she shook her head absentmindedly. The gentle scent of green apple shampoo comforted him; and it would for the next few days. 

“My parents…” he mumbled, feeling the way his throat constricted with every word. “Do they…?”

“We’re going to contact them immediately. You didn’t have emergency numbers loaded into your cell phone, so we’ve been at a loss these last few days. You also didn’t have an ID on your person.” She threw him a bizarre look. “You’ve been quite the mystery around here, Choi San.” And with that, she left the room to gather an emergency contact sheet.

Not even twenty-four hours later, his parents arrived in Ohio like two separate tempests powered by fury and fire. He’d like to say that the world stayed upright as his mother charged into the room, dark hair billowing behind her. However, the moment her familiar face entered his view, he was determined never to lose sight of it again. With a cry, the two flung themselves at each other. 

It was like being enveloped in his childhood. The cinnamon sugar body washes she insisted on having in the house apparently had not changed. As the spice wafted over him, he felt the weight of the universe bear down upon his shoulders. His mother’s magical presence sparked in recognition, searching for the familiar buzz of its kin, but was instead met with nothing.  _ Static _ .

“Sannie,” his mother murmured, eyes wide. His father trailed in behind her, slower by only a few steps, and stopped in the doorway. “Sannie, what did you do?” she whispered. Her voice was a lullaby lost to the wind of her raging storm. 

“I fell in love.”

The hospital let him leave only after his parents fought tooth and nail to have a doctor come to their home to treat him. After all, the illness was magical in origin and mortal treatments would do nothing but irritate it more. However, that did not make things more comfortable. Especially as he walked into his childhood bedroom and saw Byeol curled up among all of his luggage from the Consciousness Building. 

It was like walking into the past. Though, the world waits for no one. As his fingers dug into her salt and pepper fur, the impact of his actions finally collided with his glass heart. The second the two things met, the crystalline surface gave way to a horrendous cracking sound. And from there, shards of iridescent glass shattered.

_ Utopia had rejected him.  _

The place that was meant to be his other home, to cradle him until he was able to fly free, cast him out the second his magic filtered out of his body. And with that, he was tossed into the Hocking like a wet rag. His parents had explained, as tenderly as they could, that Eden called them in a frantic panic. He said that Yeosang was the first to tear into his office, terrified, and yelling about an explosion in the private reserves. He had instantly known what happened.

Even if there was a way to return San’s magic and allow him to step back onto Utopia’s campus, Eden would not allow it.

“You betrayed his trust, San,” his father whispered. The man was stern but never unkind. As children, San and his sister were absolute agents of chaos. There were hundreds of problems they caused that more than warranted discipline. But instead, they found punishment in their father’s silence. He would only speak, just before the siblings went upstairs to sleep, to issue a spine-shivering command. 

_ ‘I’ll talk to you two in the morning.’ _

To betray Eden was to betray Utopia. His friends. His lovers. His father. 

And somehow, that was the scariest part of it all. 

By the end of the week, there had been no contact from Yeosang or Wooyoung. Nothing from anyone back on campus. It was like the magical world had done more than just outcast him; it isolated him. And perhaps, that was for the best. 

San hadn’t noticed it upon his return, but quickly it became obvious that there was something different about his home. No longer did the air around him thrum with magical energy. The dishes in the sink no longer self-cleaned with his mother’s patented charms. The doors were locked manually– wards and barrier markings scratched off of the painted window sills. And it was obvious then, just what lengths his parents went to for him. 

His portion of the Choi line could be traced back thousands of years. The old blood that ran through their veins painted the land. And as such, it was ingrained into their homes. The wood that built the bones of the house itself pulled from the forest that has long since been in his family. 

These homes were connected to their owners; and they were alive. Their cores intertwined along the leylines that settled deep beneath the Earth. Like red strings of fate, it was impossible to sever the threads unless an outside force tore them apart. That is to say, the only way to rid a house of its magical core was to kill it.   
“Mom,” San said softly, daring the panic not to seep out between his teeth. “The house…”

“Is resting,” she mumbled, her eyes still fixated on the book in front of her. She was curled up on their common room couch, her feet tucked beneath her. A pair of plastic 99 cent store glasses balanced on the bridge of her nose, accentuating her sharp, fox-like features into something almost hawkish. 

The breath left his throat. Their home was only dormant. However, the tug of his heart on the edge of his ribs was like a guiding star pulling him into the ocean’s deep. Sue him for being overly emotional. 

“Why?” he asked and wandered over the living area’s threshold to plop himself down beside their coffee table. Cross-legged and donning plaid pajama pants, he felt like a child. “It’s not like you’re banned from using magic just because I got kicked out. Magician families have mortal kids all of the time.”

She glanced at him then with that same unwavering stare. And with a sigh, she shook her head. 

“My star, do you know why you’re here?”

“The hospital–”

“No, baby,” she said softly and moved to set her novel on the pristine white-top of the table. “The reason you came home with us, why you’re still breathing at all, is because you gave up the one thing that could bind that curse to you. Eden’s wards were meant to target magically inclined trespassers. It was meant to destroy them from the inside out while feeding their energy back to him. Back to Utopia.”

She smiled then, placing a palm on his cheek. Her hand was warm; grounding. The same way that Wooyoung’s once was. All those moments that San had spent, scrambling for purchase to keep himself tethered until Wooyoung came along like an anchor on stormy seas. 

“Sannie, if you wouldn’t have given up your magic, you would have died,” she whispers as her thumb brushes the delicate skin beneath his eye. The same place where pink petals are laid to rest against Yeosang’s pale skin. “Magic almost took one of my babies from me. And keeping it around would have only made that illness latch onto you again. It would take and take and take until you would have nothing left. So, we decided it was time to learn the mundane way of living until the next descendant of the Choi line takes over this property.”

And she caught his tears as they rolled off his chin. She pressed motherly kisses to his forehead as the world he created finally sunk into his bones. The life he loved– the men he cared so deeply for– couldn’t coexist beside him without killing him slowly. So, he understood why Wooyoung and Yeosang had yet to appear on his doorstep, clutching a hundred red roses and holding a boombox like a cliche romantic comedy. But it didn’t make the lack of even a single letter hurt any less.

Being human, he learned quickly, is fucking boring. 

After what feels like ages of lounging around watching Netflix and flipping through old sketchbooks, he had finally given up with the idea of indoors. Being in the house was only fun when Byeol wasn’t passed out in a secluded sunbeam far out of his reach. However, it is what made him organize his closet for the first time in ten years. 

And that’s why he found it. His boxed set of The Treasure Key series, settled beneath a stack of graphic novels and ancient art supplies. Their covers, he notices, are just as stunning even this much later. 

The first one in the series,  _ All to Zero _ , still stops his heart with its matte black finish. Its pages, however, are a vibrant orange. For years, he had wondered if the darkness was meant to represent uncertainty; like the night sky blossoming into a brilliant sunrise. Or maybe, it was the opposite. Reading through the book meant you were moving from sunset and into the midnight sun. Either way, it was the simplicity wrapped up in such a meaningful package that made him stop. 

Without finishing his cleaning project, he grabbed the book, his phone, and a light jacket before sprinting out of the house. He just needed a change of scenery. Anything that would give him a moment to embrace the life he left behind; to find magic among the mundane. 

So, maybe that was the spark that led him into the present. 

He had found a park, quiet and still covered with colorful fallen leaves. No one was really around, save for a few milling children and their parents, but for him it was perfect. The kind of peace he needed. Only, the serenity did not last long. 

Tucked beneath a wavering oak, he was about a fourth of the way into the novel before a tiny body barreled straight over his legs. With a yelp, he pulled them against his chest. He was in plain sight and impossible to miss, yet somehow, this dumbass managed not to see him. 

Insults already lacing his lips, San glanced up. However, the creature before him was nowhere near what he had expected. Instead of a human being, it was a black dog.

Its fur was long and silky; he had half a mind to reach out and stroke it. But the moment he let out an admiring coo, the beast moved forward; fangs bared. The first thing he saw was the crimson glow of its eyes. And, for God’s sake, he may be a cat person but he was certain that dog eyes were not supposed to do that. 

The second thing he saw was the electronic blue net that fell onto the creature. It sparked once, projecting a high squeal from the animal inside before San had a moment to adjust. No matter the threat that the dog seemed to be, though, he couldn’t let someone hurt it. So, with a cry, he lunged toward the mass of black fur and began tugging at the netting. It was only when the material let out another zap that he felt the flesh of his palms singe with the electricity. 

“Holy shit!” someone yelled as footsteps began to pound toward them. “Dude, let go! What do you think you’re doing?” The person’s voice was deep and distinctly Australian. However, San refused to let go of the dog. For all he knew, this man had been the one pursuing it anyway. 

“Do you think animal abuse is cool?” San gritted out, his teeth digging into the skin of his cheek. It wouldn’t be long until he could taste metal. 

“You can see him?” the man murmured, finally kneeling beside the ex-magician. After a breath, it was as though the reality of the situation had set in again. With the same amount of panicked energy, the newcomer pushed San’s shoulder harshly in an attempt to dislodge the man’s iron grip on the net. “Listen, buddy, this isn’t a dog you want to try saving.” 

“All dogs–”

“It’s a hellhound,” another voice said behind them. “The owner asked us to track it down before any mortals were injured.” San felt the way his chest clenched as the words settled over him. Just like the net, he felt trapped. 

With a shaky breath, he released his hold carefully. Slowly. But he couldn’t stop the hiss that left his lips as he finally saw the lattice of blisters that decorated his palms. That would be a hard one to explain to his parents. 

And evidently, the Australian noticed.

“Oh, that’s not good. Hyung, that’s not good, right?” When San finally glanced at him, it was like the universe slowed to an immediate halt before shattering. His white hair had been styled into a pseudo-mullet, contrasting the delicate tones of his skin’s countless freckles. Beneath both of his eyes, glitter and minuscule gemstones mimicked crystalline tears. But what truly made San feel like the world was ending had to be the subtle point to the boy’s ears. 

_ Fae _ .

The other man appeared beside them, a frown appearing on his plush lips as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, Lix, it’s definitely not great.” The cinnamon strands of his hair tumble into his eyes as he kneels beside San with a sigh. “You just had to be a magician, huh?” he grumbled, wrapping his fingers around the boy’s hand. 

“I’m not,” San mumbled, gaze drifting wearily to the hellhound that was growing even more irritated under the net. “I was, but I’m not now.” 

The brunette raises one of those precise eyebrows before turning his attention back to San’s palm. Silently, he tilted the limb this way and that before nodding. “Mortals can’t see the hounds, or really anything that we chase, without being exposed to magic first. Makes sense that you could see through the glamor.” 

‘Lix’ made a disgruntled noise as the hellhound in question tried to bolt unexpectedly. Its black form writhed as the faery settled himself on top of it, pushing his full weight down. 

“Minho-hyung, Lilith isn’t going to be happy if we’re late,” the boy begged, tossing his hair out of his face. “We need to report back to Chan.” His stare flickered to San’s injury. “Would you be alright if we take you back to our office with us? Seungmin is trained in first aid, so he’ll be able to take care of you there. This mission is just–”

“Time sensitive,” the one named Minho supplied shortly. “Don’t think of it as a kidnapping,” he added before a portal is thrown open in front of them. Unlike the gesture-based spells that Utopia taught him, the man did it without so much as batting an eye. And just as easily, he used that moment to push San through. 

What he was met with on the other side is an office space, filled with a dozen desks, and a kid, who can’t be more than twenty, staring down at him with an open mouth. The boy squeaked when San made eye contact before skittering halfway across the room. He didn’t even move until Minho and ‘Lix’ pulled the netted hellhound through the portal after them.

“Oh, you’ve already met our guest,” Minho said as he snapped the portal shut. The orange ring blipped out of existence and the man collapsed into one of the nearby chairs. It rolled for a split second before bumping into a cardboard box on the floor. San’s attention was glued to the contents, however. Clay teeth. Or rather, upon closer inspection, definitely real teeth. Real, elongated fangs, still tinted with crimson. Would it be rude to throw up on the office floor?

The boy didn’t move from his spot across the room, though. If anything, he inched further down the wall. With a sympathetic smile, ‘Lix’ shrugged.

“Jeongin, or as we call him, I.N. is our resident sweetheart.”

“I thought I was the resident sweetheart,” a voice called. Australian. Where were they exactly? Did they spirit him away to Australia just to treat his burns? Or rather, to eat him? 

From one of the back hallways, a figure rounded the corner. The man that appeared before them was not tall by any means. In reality, he was probably only an inch or two shorter than San. However, his size was not what drew all of the air out of the room. It was his pure, unfiltered energy. There was no question that this man was the leader. 

“What would the name of our guest be?” he asked, crossing the space in just a few strides. When his boots came to a stop beside San, he grinned playfully before extending a hand. With a sharp breath, the ex-magician let the other man peel him off of the ground. 

“Choi San,” he said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt whatever was going on out there. That dog just scared me shitless.”

The leader smiled. “They do that when you haven’t seen them before. Church grims are my preferred dog breed if I’m being honest.” A deep growl emitted from the hellhound still wrapped tightly on the floor. The man glanced at the creature with a soft expression. “Maybe I’d enjoy your lot more if you would stop running away from home. The kings and queens of the Nine Circles are not my favorite acquaintances when they’re angry,” he mumbled. 

“Speaking of,” ‘Lix’ offered, “Chan, has Lilith sent her coordinates? We told her we would have Tartarus back the moment we snagged him.”

The leader, ‘Chan’, nodded and cocked his head back toward the direction he just came from. 

“Already up on my laptop. Just ask Changbin and he’ll open the portal for you both, since I’m assuming Minho’s running out of juice.” 

The faery nodded excitedly before nearly dragging both Minho and the hellhound with him. Obviously, I.N. saw it as a moment to escape as well, because he disappears after them like a wisp. However, the name that left Chan’s lips lingers in San’s mind. It was familiar. Painfully so. He had no idea why, though. 

Brushing it off as nothing more than the commonality of a name, he turned his attention back to the leader whose warm gaze danced over his injuries. 

“Kind soul, I see. You tried to free the hellhound?” Chan asked, a grin plastered on his lips. “Even after you realized that the net was charged?”

“I didn’t really have a choice,” San shrugged. “Commit to the bit and all that, I guess.” Chan laughed at that; the sound of summer rain and humid air. All warmth and security. 

“Seungmin is our resident nurse. However, he’s out on a mission with our other member. Do you think you can handle my clumsy hands treating you?”

And for once, San didn’t feel as though someone was threatening him. So of course, he agrees. 

What he didn’t expect was how open Chan was about everything. The group was known as Strays, originally Stray Kids until they realized that no one would hire ‘kids’ as bounty hunters. They came from all sorts of magical backgrounds. Some were mythical creatures, like fae and vampires, while others were just magically inclined humans. Hedge witches, as Chan called them. 

“The ones that schools like Utopia wouldn’t give the time of day,” he had said, chewing on his bottom lip. “Like me, before I was turned.”

“You’re a vampire then?” San asked, recalling the box of fangs in the office area. When Chan’s eyes go comically wide, he realizes that he is incorrect. 

“Werewolf,” the brunette supplied as he ran a freshly washed hand through his hair. The subtle movement revealed a darker brown undercut. “Also, full moons are an outdated myth and silver bullets don’t work.” At that, they fall easily into laughter. 

It’s just as they begin to discuss the silly things in life, like whether or not vampires actually hate garlic, when San’s throat begins to itch. What started as a nuisance soon developed into full-blown asphyxiation as he curled around himself on the floor. Chan, who had been caught entirely off guard, scrambled to find help as San fought to keep his eyes open. To keep breathing. 

_ Breathe _ .

The first thing he wakes up to is a room painted tan and the same scared kid from before staring down at him like he just stole the Declaration of Independence. Only this time, he grinned when San opened his eyes.

“Jeongin, please,” someone groaned. “Poor dude is just waking up and you’re watching him like he’s prey.” The command worked, drawing I.N. away from San’s personal bubble. However, his presence is replaced just as quickly. And all San saw was the way the man’s mouth was filled to the brim with fangs. 

Forgive him for screaming. 

The new face fell into a panicked expression immediately as the door to the room flew open. From there, six other people piled into the makeshift infirmary. Among the ‘nurse’ that was evidently treating him, there had been two more new faces. One of which made San’s mouth drop open.

“Seo Changbin,” he mumbled in disbelief. Wooyoung’s other childhood best friend. The one that was in at least eight of the pictures on Wooyoung’s bulletin board. The same one that thought he went off to some fancy, private dance college. And evidently, one that had never been contacted by Wooyoung after the move to Utopia. 

The blonde quirked an eyebrow at him, paired with an unimpressed expression, and San knew for a fact that this man would never know who the hell he was. 

“Have we met?”

San frowned but shook his head. “No, but we have a mutual friend. Really, two of them. Jung Wooyoung and Kang Yeosang?” He watched as Changbin’s face dropped instantly. At first, it flickered through something surprised, then to anger, and then to vague irritation.

“Have they finally figured their shit out yet?” Changbin asked, crossing his arms. “They’ve been tiptoeing around each other for like twenty years.”

And with that, San laughed. No matter the amount of energy that had been drained from his body by that sudden bout of his illness; no doubt brought on by his sudden reinvolvement in a magic-influenced environment. He laughed until tears ran down his cheeks and the eight other men stared at him like he had lost his mind. 

“Yeah, you know, I think they did.”

As Seungmin checked over Chan’s handiwork on San’s burns, the leader lingered at the ex-magician’s side. His anxious energy swirled around his aggressively, as though begging someone to take notice, and so finally San did. Grumbling, he waved one of his now rebandaged hands in front of the werewolf’s face. 

“You’re basically buzzing,” San forced out, his throat feeling like sandpaper even after Seungmin had dosed him with a magical neutralizer. The nurse, he learned, was one of the hedge witches and specialized in green medicinal remedies. Certainly, he would have been a Healer at Utopia. 

“I want to ask you something,” Chan said through gritted teeth. “Really, I wanted to ask you before you blacked out. But now, I think I need to ask about that part first.” As the brunette spoke, San felt a bit of his heart drop to his toes. 

Other than his parents, his doctors, and those on campus, who knew about his illness? Who knew about the way he couldn’t follow rules? Or about the way he single-handedly changed his family’s life forever? 

But then again, who else could he talk to about it if not a ragtag group of Strays? So, he told them everything. 

And when he finished, there was a determined look in the leader’s eye. 

“My next question then,” he said, “do you want to join us?” 

And for the first time since being kicked out of Utopia, his own Garden of Eden seemed to appear before him. A place to finally belong again. 

Who was he to say no?

**

“I just think it’s weird that they call us bloodsuckers,” Han says, not for the first time since San met him. “Our fangs aren’t straws. We just use them to make a little hole. If anything, they should call us bloodlickers.” 

It was the vampire’s main complaint of the night as they sat on top of the stone archway, just in the center of some college campus. On San’s other side, a flash of silver lets the brunette know that Felix has already turned into a giggling mess. But to be honest, patrols with these two were about as comfortable as he could be. They felt like home. 

“Speaking of licks, when I met Felix, I was convinced his name was actually ‘Lix’,” San grins, hearing the way the faery’s joy pitches even higher. His voice was impossibly deep, but that didn’t stop his laughter from rivaling those tiny glass and metal wind chimes they sold at Renaissance Faires. 

“Dude, that would be so unfortunate,” Han gasps. “We’d have to call him ‘Licky’.” San is glad that the glamour they’re wearing makes them invisible and silent to mortals. He could only imagine how quickly they would become this college’s new set of cryptids. 

“You already call me ‘Lixxie’,” the blonde mutters. “Have you gotten any updates on the rogues yet, San?” 

Rogue magicians. The most recent case dropped onto his shoulders by that damn mysterious benefactor. At this point, the person was just an exquisite pain. 

“Not yet,” the brunette replies, watching a young couple walk under the gate. “Probably part of being both rogue and magicians, you know.” He tries to crack a grin but falters when he catches Felix’s sympathetic stare. 

San didn’t let himself get close to the Strays, not because he didn’t like them, but because he was afraid to hurt them. He was damaged goods. And they were too kind, too trusting. Instead of calling him on it, though, the faery just sighs. 

Checking his phone, he sighs when the clock face glows with an approaching alarm. Midnight and noon were the two times that bound him to the blue bottle of tiny, powder-filled capsules Seungmin prepared for him weekly. Mugwort, elderberry, and yarrow; an herbal cocktail to cleanse the magical energy that clung to him when he spent time with the Strays. 

It wasn’t enough to stop his illness from flaring up in dots and speckles, but with it, things weren’t impossible to handle. And as long as he spent less than twelve hours in the presence of magic, the effects were virtually non-existent. It was more than he had before. And for that, he couldn’t thank the hedge-witch enough. 

He pulls his dose out of the near-empty bottle, its moldy green contents unappetizing. With a grimace, he places it on his tongue and swallows deeply. It slides down his throat, the soluble capsule sticking to his esophagus. When it’s finally over, he feels the disgusted shiver run down his spine. 

“Those never look fun,” Han throws out, watching San closely. “You always make a weird face after.”

“Have you ever eaten a dirty sock?” San asks. When the other two boys shake their heads, he grins. “It’s basically like that.” When he chuckles, Felix sticks his tongue out in horror. However, something just over his shoulder draws San’s intention instead. 

Two figures, black hoodies with the cap pulled up, are moving quickly between the trees. Both appear to be male, one a flash of red and the other a faded pink. But that isn’t what makes his heart propel through a glass wall. 

It is the dull drum of magical energy. The buzz of familiar, golden tendrils as they reach beneath his skin. And the other two beside him sense it immediately. Sharing a look of bewilderment, Han leans just close enough to the brunette for his breath to ghost the shell of his ear. 

“Magicians, yeah?” he asks, tilting his head. “We can follow them. They might lead us to the rogues you need.” Being rogue wasn’t the issue. Hedges were rogue. The Strays were rogue. But magicians trained under Utopian hands that leapt from the garden path? They were unpredictable. Dangerous. 

“Yeah,” San breathes, eyes never leaving the two boys as they wove through the campus. “Let’s go.”

The trio descends onto the brick road beneath them gracefully. And by gracefully, it should be entirely implied that San didn’t faceplant. He stumbled, sure. But his face did not become one with the red brick under their toes. Laugh, but it was a feat all on its own.

The two magicians move quickly, however, they are sloppy. A turn here and a twist there, it becomes obvious that they are aware of the Stray’s presence lingering after them. However, they don’t seem to be able to pinpoint where their hunters are. Or rather, these magicians were only the Stray’s prey if they were the rogues that they were looking for. Otherwise, they were just terribly suspicious creatures of habit trying to throw the trio for a loop. 

And when they come to the head of a back alleyway, it is obvious that the three of them have just walked right into a dead-end trap. Both magicians stand opposite of them, their hoods still pulled up to cover their faces, and their backs toward the hunters. 

“You know we’re here, don’t you?” Han asks, dropping his glamour. “We’re not going to hurt you. We just have a few questions.”

“We’re pacifists, really!” Felix chimes in, his voice carrying through the air like a song. Hopefully, the two before them know that he is Fae. After all, the Fair Folk could never lie. 

“You’re from Utopia, right?” San asks, taking a step forward. “Your magical imprint is familiar. We might have had a class together before I left–”

“Before you were kicked out, you mean,” the one on the left murmurs. His voice is the ocean tide pulling sand and shells to shore. When San hears it, it is like being sent back in time. Not just to Utopia, but to meetings at old-blood parties. To hiding in the hallways of churches while their parents searched relentlessly for them. To gummy bear smiles and crowns of clovers.

When Jongho turns around, San is already running straight into his embrace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✧ Sorry this chapter took forever to update!   
> This was NOT how the plot of San's illness was supposed to go, but my 97 y/o grandmother was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer (a scan also showed that it spread to her brain) this week. So, I've kind of decided to scrap the old plot. I hope that's okay!
> 
> Find me on Twitter: [@KyojinOuji](https://twitter.com/kyojinouji)
> 
> I always follow back and love new friends.
> 
> \- Cheers! ✧


	7. philosopher's stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ✧ This is the last full chapter before the epilogue! ✧

> _ “Take your time, it's all right. _
> 
> _ Everything will work out fine. _
> 
> _ But you don't wanna go there, _
> 
> _ So you take care to hide it _
> 
> _ There's thousands of summer twilights,  _
> 
> _ waiting in sight if we leave at first light.” _
> 
> **_Thousands of Summer Twilights_ ** _ \- Oswey _
> 
> * * *

“You’re an ass,” Jongho murmurs into San’s hair. “Do you even know how badly you scared us?” 

“I didn’t mean to,” the brunette sniffles. Maybe there was a way to breathe again after all. Even as the magic around them licks at his lungs like tendrils of poisonous mist. For now, it couldn’t touch him. “Why are you here?” he asks quietly. 

Beside them, Yunho makes a soft noise. It’s so obviously the man’s gentle offense at not being the first one hugged. With a damp chuckle– he was unaware that he had even started crying– San wiggles out of Jongho’s death grip to find himself at the other magician. Yunho sighs into the embrace, his large palm finding its place on the small of San’s back. 

“Sannie, do you really think we would just let you disappear?” he says quietly. There is a wall between his words and emotion. With the Strays still lingering nearby, it’s not as though San can blame him. However, it is just as uncomfortable when he realizes the weight of the Illusionist’s words. 

What had it been like after he vanished without a word?

“You didn’t write,” he could only mumble, grip tightening on the fabric of Yunho’s hoodie. “I thought you didn’t care anymore.”

“We couldn’t find you. Your parents are off the map,” Jongho throws out. His voice is heavy and exhausted. Even so, it’s like honey tea on a summer evening. Familiar and grounding. 

When San separates from Yunho, he catches the wary eye of Felix. The man has positioned himself between the opening of the alley and the two newcomers, but his shoulders droop as though he just watched the world melt around them. 

“Lix?” he asks quietly, taking a step toward the blonde. The other startles with the sudden movement, the sharp points of his fangs making an appearance over his lips. San had learned early on in their friendship that the faery, a Piskie, was never to be caught off guard. There was always something alarming about seeing something so angelic turn feral in a blink.

Han reaches out quickly, his palm setting over Felix’s wrist before the boy can lunge. When the leather of his glove wraps around the blonde’s arm, a visible change settles over him. According to Chan, the vampire was only a day older than Felix. It was as though they shared a similar wavelength, like two brothers bound to near immortality. 

Felix stops moving entirely. Eyes wide, he glances between Han and San. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, rushing to bow carefully to San. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“You’re fine, Felix,” San shrugs. He feels the way his smile spreads over his lips easily. “I was just going to introduce you all. That’s it,” he adds.

When he turns on his heel again to gesture at the magicians, Jongho has a hand positioned on his hip. It’s a gesture that makes San’s heart tug painfully. Mingi always did something similar; especially when he was alert. To see Jongho pick up such a small touch of the other man was endearing. 

“Choi Jongho,” San says softly, “and one of his boyfriends, Jeong Yunho.” As he speaks, he watches Yunho’s face blossom into a bright grin. A peony unfolding before the light of day. He bounds forward like an excited puppy before anyone can stop him.

“So, you’re the ones taking care of San?” Yunho asks quickly. “I hope he’s not giving you hell.” The younger man squeaks and starts toward him. However, the Illusionist jumps out of the way before San can land a soft hit on his shoulder. 

“He’s not too much trouble,” Han laughs. “Unless you count him trying to pick up every nekomata we run into. Dude doesn’t understand that they’ll eat him in one bite.”

“They’re just cats!” San groans, hiding his face when Jongho lets out a loud laugh. “Seriously, they’re sweet if you remember to bring rice wine. I’d be pissed too if people kept pestering me.”

Even as the joyful energy still lingers between them, he knows better than to accept it without a second thought. Jongho and Yunho were here for a reason. And if they were the rogues that the Strays were tracking, it meant that something had gone wrong. Why else would there be a warrant out for their detainment?

“Jongho–”

“You’re going to ask why we’re here, aren’t you?” the red head interrupts. “We’re really here for you, San. Eden wasn’t exactly thrilled about what happened, but that doesn’t mean he’s trying to keep you hidden from us.”

“He’s totally trying,” Yunho chuckles, “but obviously he’s failing.”

“He’s the one that sent me out here, I think,” San mumbles. When Jongho raises a brow, he sighs. “The Strays have been receiving emails with cases addressed just to me. This time, you guys were in one.”

Yunho laughs and leans back against the brick wall beside him. San wants to tell him not to, that it’s filthy and countless people have probably had sex there, but the magician is already laughing before he can.

“Oh really? What was our crime? ‘Going Rogue’?” When San’s face goes blank, the pink haired man lets out a wild screech. “No, seriously? He knows we’re here! We told him we were looking for you.” 

“He probably just wanted me to keep watch for you too,” San says with a smile. “Who knows what kind of shenanigans you guys got up to once I jumped ship.”

It feels good to see them again. But when silence dances between them, the awkward atmosphere settling in the alley like a flannel blanket, San realizes his misstep. The Strays had said nothing during the exchange. Really, Felix and Han had been pulled into a mission that was never theirs. And while he knew they were more than willing to stay by his side, there was so much they had yet to learn about his life at Utopia.

For what it was worth, San didn’t spend time recounting the past to the Strays. They never asked and he never felt pressured to expose himself like that. But standing before two of the very people that walked beside him through every painted polaroid memory, the desperation clawed at his chest. He was living separate lives; neither of which he was truly willing to let go of.

“I can’t come back,” San says finally. Yunho’s face is the first to fall. It starts in his eyes, the optimism slowly leaking out of his features like diluted watercolor. 

Before the magicians can speak, however, he holds up a palm. He begs for their understanding, their time. A request between friends; a bridge from past to present.

“Eden told you, right? That the wards were cursed.” When Jongho nods, San feels his heart plummet. How could their headmaster wish such a fate upon anyone— even an intruder? 

San’s nails bite into his skin as he curls his fingers tightly.  _ Breathe. _

“The spell is activated by magical energy. I can’t be around it for long without the effects slowly starting to return.” He finds himself smiling sadly as his gaze does not lift from the yellow threads of his Docs. “So, wherever you are planning to go after this, I can’t come with you. I want to, more than anything, but I have to think of my family.”

It’s like a vase shattering on linoleum. Yunho takes a step forward, arms outstretched, before Jongho pulls him back abruptly.

“We’re your family too, San,” the pink haired boy murmurs. Even as the ex-magician fights the urge to meet his eyes, he knows unshed tears brim in the corners.

So, San nods. He feels the sting of his nails biting into his palms. He feels the air in his lungs as he remembers to breathe. And he feels the electricity that dances around them, taunting and dangerous, as emotions buckle.

“You are,” San whispers, “which is why I’m begging you to listen to me. Stop looking for a way to fix things. Stop sacrificing yourselves. And please,” he says as salt rolls down his cheeks, “stop living for me. I’m alive.”

“We all are,” a new voice adds from the mouth of the alleyway. “So, let us make our own decisions.” 

Life was never meant to be easy. The hourglass would continue to spit grains of sand into the abyss until hopefully, one day, someone remembered to flip it. Even then, a world without time might be a relief. A world without magic, San was beginning to believe, might be a utopia.

And as Yeosang stares back at him, dark eyes full of something indescribable, San wishes that was the paradise they were part of right now. One where a creature so delicate was never damaged by such a dark force.

“You’re thinking something stupidly poetic,” the Necromancer says. When San’s eyes widen, Yeosang looks beyond done with him. “I don’t need to be a mind reader to know that you’re a hopeless romantic, San.”

He hardly gets the words out before San is crumbling onto the wet pavement.  _ Breathe _ . Breathing should come easy, right? If his heart wasn’t pounding out of his ribcage. Or maybe, if he wasn’t a sobbing mess. 

He doesn’t know who pulls him against their chest. He doesn’t even hear the muffled conversation as the group discusses what the hell to do with an ex-magician riddled with anxiety. What he does know is the hot cup of hot chocolate that Minho pushes into his hands the moment they stumble from the portal into the Strays’ office. 

As he forces himself to focus on the way Yeosang’s fingers rub cautious circles into the dip of his elbow, there’s an odd sense of serenity that settles over him. Like being a child in the days leading up to Christmas Eve— tucked in his warm bed and snuggled against Byeol. For a split second, he can almost feel that liminal tranquility that came with peering out at fresh midnight snow.

“I’m saying,” Chan groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, “that letting seven rogue magicians into the office might not be a good image!”

“And I’m saying,” Han argues back, pushing a finger against their leader’s chest, “that you didn’t see Sannie out there. This is his family. At least here, Seungmin will be on standby in case something goes wrong.”

Chan throws his hands up silently. While it looks like a signature for surrender, it is obviously not as the man does a loop around one of the cubicles before coming back. 

“What are you going to do if San dies?”

“I’m not going to die—“

“This doesn’t involve you!” Chan barks back at the brunette. As San’s mouth snaps shut, he watches the werewolf transition through a range of wild expressions before settling on a cross between ‘absolutely confused’ and ‘completely embarrassed’. Before he can apologize, though, the ex-magician cackles.

“Last I checked, I’m the only San here,” he says, leaning into Yeosang’s touch. Chan was right, though. While he wouldn’t die, there was no way of knowing how long San could withstand the pure magical energy that would soon suffocate the room. Even Changbin had offered to turn his workshop into a “magic-free zone” for the time being.

Chan nods, this time with a gentle blush dusting his cheeks. “You are, yeah, I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

“Again?” Yeosang asks, cocking his head. “How often do you get hurt around here?” While the question is honest, San picks up the dangerous aura that laces the older’s words. If he told the man the truth, there was no way Yeosang wouldn’t rip his head off for putting himself at risk. Especially not after San’s little show of bravery earlier.

When San doesn’t answer, instead glancing to the lingering Strays for help, they all pretend that their workspaces need immediate tidying. Even Hyunjin, who had been intently listening to the entire conversation from the cubicle beside San, excuses himself to go “feed Minho’s cat”. If only the older was around to tell the siren that he most definitely had three, not one.

“Like once or twice,” San finally answers, not meeting Yeosang’s weighted gaze. When the magician’s eyes narrow, he feels himself begin to panic. “Maybe more than that.”

He cringes when Yeosang opens his mouth. However, the lecture never comes. Instead, the blonde sighs and smuggles the mug out of San’s grasp. Carefully, Yeosang reaches over him to set the hot chocolate on the desk before intertwining their fingers. He gives a gentle wiggle, testing the touch, before nodding almost to himself.

“You’d think after all this time, you might learn a little bit of self-preservation,” Yeosang says, lifting their bonded hands to his lips. Tenderly, he grants a soft kiss to the inside of San’s wrist.

It’s feather-light but more intimate than anything San has ever felt with the older man. No matter the bases they jumped or the emotions they hurtled, the raw nerve of existing in the same space was enough to saw at San’s heartstrings. Yeosang had somehow played every single one like an instrument blessed by the heavens. Yet, the song was undecipherable until now. Muffles beneath piles and piles of cotton. Bound in wool and regrets. 

Yet, out in the open? It was beautiful. And it was theirs. But, it was missing something.

The laughter of summer blossoms and a garden path lit by fireflies. The terracotta pot, shattered on a balcony, only to be pieced back together bit by bit with gold paint. Like kintsugi, they too glittered in that warm sunlight. 

And he appeared before them like a tidal wave. 

“Sannie,” Wooyoung breathed, stumbling out of the portal. “My Sannie?”

“Wooyoung.” It was a fractal of sea glass settling among the tides. The way his voice broke and somehow Wooyoung’s sobs held it together. Or how Yeosang’s touch, so delicate, was their only tether. 

There would be time to breathe again. Time to paint gold into the cracks and crevices and carve statues to recognize their glory. There would be time to map every tear and eyelash, every whispered promise and starlit petal. 

The itch in his lungs couldn’t stop that. It could slow it, sure. It could make things so painful that he no longer wished to speak or laugh, but he always would. If it meant that he could see the two souls he loved more than anything smile with all of the grace of a butterfly’s first flight? He would take it all and want for nothing in return.

When Wooyoung's arms envelop him, San can feel the way the other trembles. Terrified, a daisy's delicate petal caught in the winds of an approaching storm, he holds on for dear life. 

"Where did you go?" he whispers against San's neck. "Why did you leave me?" His voice cracks under the weight of his thoughts.

_ Why did you leave me? _

Because there was so much hope- too much much hope. And he was a lover, never a fighter, when things got rough. When the battle was brought home, there was nowhere left to run. He was all that he had left to give.

"I'm so sorry," is the only thing that he can say. "I'm so sorry."

Wooyoung laughs and it is not the sound of an iris crown settled upon a young prince's head. It is not the joyful childishness that Wooyoung radiated through their time together. It is the sound of emptiness and ice cracking upon the surface of a frozen pond. 

"I don't forgive you," the magician says. When he pulls away from San, his face is splotchy. "I don't know if I ever will. But that doesn't mean that I hate you."

"You better not," Yeosang adds. "That would make things a little awkward moving forward, don't you think?" 

And he feels it now. The way Yeosang's voice had found its strength, its certainty. How the older man's touch no longer danced over him like he was afraid of chipping pristine glass. He feels the Yeosang that left them that night in the Tír na nÓg. And the air leaves his lungs in a burst.

"Yeo?" he whispers. "Did you remember?"

The angel's kiss beside the Necromancer's eye stands out like a precious memory. As Yeosang's expression paints into a soft smile, San feels his own do the same. Things would never go back to the way they were before. But at this point, he didn’t think that he would want them to. 

“You know,” Yeosang says, wrapping his arms around both Wooyoung and San. And, God, the latter could look at him forever- at the beautiful way his eyes glittered in the Strays dim office. And the way Wooyoung leaned into his touch like a cat in the sun. “I might have remembered a few things,” he finishes before closing the gap between them.

San can’t stop himself from sighing into the kiss. Sure, they had a moment in the kitchen of the Physical Kids’ cottage. But back then, it felt like he was stealing something from Yeosang. As though a human soul was ever his to take. 

When Yeosang pulls back, San feels Wooyoung’s lips ghost over his jaw as well. 

“I’m still mad at you,” the brunette grumbles, “but I missed you so fucking much, asshole.” 

Laughter. That was the piece of his heart that never clicked back into place. There had always been laughter, but he wasn’t sure when it stopped warming his heart. He has no idea when that fizzy feeling of vanilla ice cream submerged in root beer disappeared. And now, he knows. He feels the way his body melts into the carbonated sound of their tearful reunion and bright-as-hell future. 

He would never let it go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✧ Find me on Twitter: [@KyojinOuji](https://twitter.com/kyojinouji)
> 
> I always follow back and love new friends.
> 
> \- Cheers! ✧


	8. equivalent exchange :: epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ✧ This is a double update! If you haven't read chapter 7 yet, that was posted earlier today! ✧

> _ “I was calling for the last time. _
> 
> _ We've been here before, _
> 
> _ They found the pictures in the snow. _
> 
> _ I can tell your eyes looked beneath the blue. _
> 
> _ I walk underneath the trees for the first time.” _
> 
> **_You are a Memory_ ** _ \- Message to Bears _
> 
> * * *

Baby’s breath is on the table again. The glass vase, tipped over and dripping water off of the mahogany, sparkles like molten sunlight as the last rays of the afternoon begin to trickle between the half-open shutters. There are forget-me-nots on the floor and purple hyacinths littering the path to the kitchen. But somehow, nothing is out of place. 

Not with the apartment full of soft giggles and silly voices. 

“Dad said–”

“Dad says a lot of things,” a young girl says. Her long dark hair has been braided into two pigtails. Pouting, her twin brother tries to shove her off of the bed again. Tipped with red, her hair swings wildly as she screeches. 

“Do you ever think it’s weird that he named you after a cat?” the boy asks before flipping onto his back. The mattress is covered in books. Each one a tale of kingdoms and knights. Keys, mysteries, and faeries. And magic. 

“Don’t you think it’s weird that they named you after the moon?” Byeol bites back. Fighting like this, as though they were the only two tired warriors on some ancient battle ground, wasn’t uncommon. Much to their parents' dismay, it was a nightly occurrence. Especially as one of the novels clatters onto the hardwood floor unceremoniously, bringing a running gaggle straight to the bedroom doorway. 

Ten years was hardly any time, San had learned. It had given them a moment to breathe, to adjust to a life without the buzz of magic, but it was barely a blink in the long run. And as he looks in at his children, one of which tugs harshly on the other’s pigtail, he knows that they’ll understand it one day too. 

“Dal!” he yells, ignoring the low chuckles behind him. Leave it to his partners to make him out to be the bad guy. “Stop trying to rip your sister’s hair out, please. She’s already going bald.” 

“Dad,” Byeol whines, clamoring off of the bed the second Dal’s little fist drops from the dark strands. “He’s being rude again.” She wraps herself around his waist. Not for the first time, he feels like she is getting far too tall for a seven-year-old. She barely comes up past his waist, but he feared the day he would struggle to give her a piggyback ride.

“Did you do something to upset him?” a rational voice speaks up behind them. Yeosang stands with a hand on his hip and his patented ‘I won’t pick sides’ expression plastered mischievously onto his face. When Dal springs off of the mattress as well and skips into the hallway, it’s obvious exactly who started the attack. 

“He said that magic isn’t real,” Byeol says softly. It’s a sound that breaks San’s heart into a million pieces. “He thinks that you guys made the map under the table just because you wanted us to help you come up with more stuff for your books.” The last part is undoubtedly directed at Yeosang. 

Since the group graduated from Utopia, he had finally followed his dream to become an author. During the week, he worked for the city’s largest community college as one of their highest-tenured fiction writing professors. No one questioned the Necromancer marks that coiled up and down his arms. No one asked him to summon something out of nothing. More often than not, he came home with wild stories from his students and none of his own. In each one, he saw himself– the person he would have been without Utopia. 

“Well that’s just silly,” Wooyoung speaks up, shuffling over to their daughter with a twinkle in his eye. The rabbit ears on the fuzzy pink headband holding his long, dark hair out of his face flop wildly as he kneels down before her. “When would we have had the time to do something like that?” She giggles when he reaches out to tickle her tummy. 

The truth of the matter was that they did indeed have time to do that. Not since they adopted the twins, but ten years ago. Magic was impossible to avoid, it seemed, but there was always a safe-space waiting just around the corner. 

Yeosang and Wooyoung’s apartment had been waiting for them since the day they left for Utopia. And, without a second thought, they tossed San the keys. 

“You need somewhere you can breathe,” Yeosang had said, peppering San’s face with kisses as the three of them laid beneath the old table from Wooyoung and his childhood. A time that San was never a part of. “Seungmin is a good Healer. If he would have gone to Utopia, I’m sure he would have been Seonghwa’s biggest rival. But you can’t let yourself live in fear. At least here, you’ll have time to yourself.”

“With Byeol,” San had murmured, watching his own hand as he tentatively drew a single brush stroke of white over the crayon marks they were working so diligently to hide. Wooyoung giggled from his other side and moved quickly to swipe a stripe across San’s cheek. 

“With your damn cat. You’re lucky this place doesn’t charge for pets,” the brunette said. When San dotted his nose with the cheap, craft-store acrylic, the magician squawked in indignation. 

Beneath that table, they mapped out their memories. A bridge of flowers, continuing for what felt like eternity. A campus pond that held more mysteries than the ocean depths. A gate of ivy and curses. A cottage filled to the brim with joy and laughter. 

They would never forget the past. They would simply reinvent it. 

For his lovers, giving up day-to-day magic was easy. They hadn’t been born into that life. They had no family ties that pulled them back over and over. Even their jobs were so absolutely mundane that San found himself wondering how they had managed to be so perfectly normal. After everything, they were distinctly mortal. Full of mistakes and silly decisions; life and exhaustion.

Wooyoung was a top paid ballet instructor at the studio he co-owned with Yunho. The bottom floor, however, was dedicated to Hongjoong’s personal studio. He worked tirelessly to produce music not only for unsigned artists around the world, but for a particular Choi Jongho. Together, they were an unstoppable duo that was constantly pulled into scoring films for indie-directors. And really, it didn’t seem like they would have it any other way.

Walking past the table, San sees the vase and its contents laid bare. Quirking a brow, he can only smirk as he gently lifts the undamaged blooms back into their glass home. Mingi would kill him if he saw his hard work splattered through the apartment like potpourri. Every Saturday, the florist brought the trio’s daughter, Bom, over to spend the afternoon with Byeol. And by the night, San’s home would be filled with light as the other magicians flooded in. 

The group came together every weekend. To relive their memories and let their children dance to the beat of their own drums. It had been Seonghwa and Hongjoong’s idea once San’s illness began to dissipate. While it would never be quite gone, it was enough to be able to spend just a few moments with the ones he loved so dearly. There were things they had never quite fixed, like their sins still being cast into the Gate, but they were the parts of themselves they had to learn to live with. When life was this fragile, you had to know when it was finally time to stop.

“Did they knock them over again?” a soft voice whispers. Warm arms wind around his waist, delicate like ivy climbing brick, and pull San backward until Wooyoung hooks his chin over his shoulder. The older nods, sighing into the embrace. 

“I can’t tell if Mingi or Seonghwa would be angrier to see it,” San murmurs, eyes drifting shut. “Hwa would probably burst a blood vessel and tell Mars that he should never grow up to be like us.” As he says it, he can already hear the pediatric nurse’s rant echo in his nightmares.

Wooyoung presses a soft kiss to his temple. 

“Do you think we’ll ever tell the kids about their names?” the younger asks. “Byeol still thinks you named her after your cat.”

“Maybe I did,” San sniffs. However, the truth was always there– lingering in the weirdest places. All four of the children had been named after their counterparts in the Tír na nÓg. And what horrified San the most was that it had been entirely a coincidence. As though fate always knew what was in store for them, even worlds apart. 

“We’ll tell them someday,” another voice adds, rounding the corner of the hallway. “They look pretty content right now, though,” Yeosang grins, tilting his head toward the living room couch. 

Lit by the fading sunset, the two twins are wrapped tightly in a fluffy blanket. Between them, a single black and orange book rests on the cushion. 

_ The Treasure Key: All to Zero. _

One day, they would know why San could not tell them about the cases he worked on. They wouldn’t wonder why their father, a ‘mall security guard’, kept coming home late at night with gashes and wounds. They would know why his coworkers were called the Strays. They would see those tiny green capsules that he took religiously twice a day and know that they shouldn’t be cut open to be used in bathroom sink ‘spells’ consisting of entire bottles of body wash and half of Wooyoung’s contact solution. They would know to protect their true names with their lives and never to eat the food a stranger offers. 

But for now, they would know childhood and mystery. They would know what it meant to have scraped knees from falling out of trees and they would learn that planting Cheerios in playground soil doesn’t produce a donut orchard. They would grow. They would love. And above all else, they would live. 

For now, that was all the magic they needed to be happy. 

And that alone was what reminded him, after all these years, to keep breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✧ Well gee, that was a journey.   
> Thank you so much for reading. This was not the plan, but frankly, I made so many loose ends that I have no idea how to bundle them all up nicely. So, here's my messily crocheted disaster filled with love and memories.
> 
> Find me on Twitter: [@KyojinOuji](https://twitter.com/kyojinouji)
> 
> I always follow back and love new friends.
> 
> Cheers! 
> 
> \- Baz ✧


End file.
